Erig.iy  AJLPitchie.NY. 


THE   LIFE 


SUMNER  LINCOLN  FAIRFMP,  9SQ. 


IN   ONE    VOLUME. 


BY    JANE    FAIRFIELD, 


NEW   YORK: 
PUBLISHED   BY  THE   AUTHOR 

<J.    W.    WOOD,    PRINTER. 

1846: 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846,  by 

JANE    FAIRFIELD, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


TO 


FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK,    ESQ. 


IN  TESTIMONY   OF   THE   HIGHEST  RESPECT 


FOR  HIS  GENIUS  AS  A  POET,   AND  EMINENT  ACQUIREMENTS, 


THIS   WORK   IS   DEDICATED 


BY  JANE   FAIRFIELD, 


M189266 


TO    THE    PUBLIC. 


IT  is  by  no  means  consistent  for  one  so  nearly  allied  as  the 
wife,  to  write  a  biography  of  the  husband.  There  are  many  thing's 
that,  under  any  consideration,  she  should  not  be  induced  to  explain ; 
her  feelings  are  often  overcome  by  the  bitterness  of  grief,  or  acted 
upon  by  sympathy  or  benevolence.  "  Facts,  not  opinions,"  should 
be  the  motto  of  every  candid  historian ;  it  therefore  requires  a  biogra 
pher  who  shall  try  a  cause  not  from  malice,  or  excuse  from  favor. 

I  have  endeavored,  in  as  concise  a  manner  as  possible,  to  lay  be 
fore  the  public  a  few  of  the  events  in  the  life,  and  to  analyze,  as  well 
as  I  was  able,  the  mind  and  character  of  my  late  husband.  The  ne 
cessity  of  expediting  the  publication  of  the  work,  induced  me  to  take 
upon  myself  the  responsibility  of  the  task  ;  and  as  it  is  my  first  at 
tempt  at  authorship,  (and  I  trust  it  will  be  the  last,)  I  hope  I  shall  be 
forgiven  for  all  absurdities  of  style  and  composition. 

Opposite  views  are  often  taken  of  the  same  events  and  characters, 
by  persons  of  differently  constituted  minds  ;  and  though  I  may  differ 
from  the  multitude  in  regard  to  the  prominent  points  of  character  in 
relation  to  the  poet,  I  feel  quite  confident  that  there  are  a  few  among 
those  wlio  knew  him  best,  who  will  coincide  in  my  opinions.  How 
far  I  have  succeeded,  rests  with  their  better  judgment. 

MARCH  22,  1846.  JANE  F  AIRFIELD. 

1* 


THE   LIFE 


SUMNER  LINCOLN  FAIRFIELD,  ESQ. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SUMNER  LINCOLN  FAIRFIELD  was  the  only  son  of  Dr. 
Abner  Fail-field.  He  was  born  on  the  25th  of  June, 
1803,  in  the  mountain  town  of  Warwick,  Massachu 
setts,  not  far  from  the  frontiers  of  the  State.  Of  the 
family,  or  the  ancestors  of  his  father,  little  is  known. 
It  is  certain,  however,  that  they  were  French  descent : 
since  the  Fairfield  name  originated  from  the  name  of 
Beauchamp.  It  is  believed  there  were  three  brothers 
of  the  name  came  from  France  at  the  time  of  the 
Revolution,  and  settled  in  New  England.  I  regret 
the  vagueness,  and  uncertainty  I  feel  on  this  subject, 
since  there  is  nothing  more  agreeable  than  to  be 
able  to  trace  to  a  certainty,  a  line  of  one's  ancestry. 
This,  in  a  country  like  ours,  made  and  mixed  up  as  it 
is  from  among  the  nations  of  the  earth,  could  scarcely 
be  possible. 

While  yet  an  infant,  the  parents,  with  their  only 
child,  removed  to  a  small  town  in  the  State  of  New 
York,  named  Athens  ;  on  the  beautiful  Hudson.  Here, 
not  long  before  the  death  of  Dr.  Fairfield,  a  daughter 
was  added,  who,  in  a  short  time,  became  to  her  brother 
almost  his  only  solace. 


THE    LIFE    OF 


Dr.  Abner  Fairfield  died  in  October,  1806,  in  the 
thirty-second  year  of  his  age.  He  fell  a  victim  to  his 
responsible  profession,  during  the  ravages  of  a  pes- 
tilential  epidemic.  The  mother,  as  is  often  the  case  in 
widowhood,  found  refuge  in  the  home  of  her  father 
a  plain,  industrious,  worthy  yeoman,  in  a  rustic  spot, 
near  the  village  of  Western,  Worcester  County,  Mass. 

Here,  among  the  romantic  hills  and  valleys  of  the 
Father-land  of  Freedom,  passed  the  earlier  years  of 
the  poet.  Few  opportunities  for  mental  cultivation 
were  afforded,  for  he  was  put  on  an  equality  with  the 
children  of  the  family,  and  all  who  lived  on  the  estate 
of  Mr.  Lincoln  were  accustomed  to  labor.  But  their 
dwelling  became  a  refuge  for  the  broken  in  spirit ; 
and  the  widow  and  the  fatherless,  for  four  brief  years, 
found  much  to  console  them  in  the  sympathy  of  rela 
tives  and  friends. 

At  the  end  of  this  period,  a  new  affliction  was  im 
pending  ;  Marietta,  who  was  now  in  her  fifth  year, 
and  had  grown  in  mind  and  form,  beautiful  as  the 
first  flowers  of  spring,  was  seized  on  the  first  of  Sep 
tember,  1810,  by  a  fatal  malady,  which,  within  a  few 
days,  closed  her  unoffending  career,  and  wafted  her 
spotless  spirit  far  beyond  the  taint  and  trouble  of  this 
mortal  life.  This  was  a  severe  and  bitter  trial,  for 
she  was  the  idol  of  her  grand-parents,  and,  indeed,  all 
who  knew  her.  Her  brother  was  inconsolable  at  this 
bereavement,  and  continued  through  life  to  mourn  the 
loss  of  this  radiant  and  lovely  being.  He  was  often 
sad — most  sad  when  contemplating  the  loss  of  both 
father  and  sister.  In  a  poem,  written  in  manhood, 
entitled  the  "  Father's  Legacy,"  he  shows  how  deep 
were  his  feelings  on  this  subject. 


SUMNER   LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  9 

From  this  severe  trial,  the  poor  boy  seemed  roused 
to  a  sense  of  his  situation.  The  loss  of  his  father, 
almost  in  infancy,  and  his  sister,  which  speedily  fol 
lowed,  produced  in  his  young  mind,  by  nature  re 
flective,  those  gloomy  forebodings  of  the  future,  which 
haunted  his  imagination,  and  dwelt  upon  his  heart. 
During  that  epoch,  it  was  difficult  to  find  occupation 
which  might  cheat  the  days  of  calamity  of  their  weary 
length.  While  Marietta  lived,  they  blended  their  en 
joyments  together;  they  ran  up  and  down  the  brows 
of  the  hills,  which  skirted  the  beautiful  country  around 
the  dwelling,  where  lived  their  grand-parents ;  they 
plucked  the  roses  on  the  mead,  and  loved  the  hours 
that  were  their  own. 


10  THE    LIFE    OF 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  most  fervent  affections  are  those  which  arc 
least  divided.  The  poor  boy  being  left  alone  with  his 
mother,  (consequently,  could  love  none  but  her,)  loved 
her  with  a  fervor  that  scarcely  admitted  of  compa 
rison.  She  became  the  only  protector  of  his  child 
hood,  the  partaker  of  his  sorrows,  and  his  only  society. 

Dr.  Fairfield  died  a  poor  man,  and,  in  his  last  mo 
ments,  requested  that  his  only  son  should  receive,  if 
possible,  a  collegiate  education.  This  last  request 
was  the  sole  project  that  held  possession  of  the  poor 
boy's  mind.  He  beheld  in  their  strongest  light,  many 
of  the  impediments  he  must  surmount.  The  ardour 
of  his  wishes  encouraged  him,  and  he  felt  convinced 
he  should  overcome  them  all.  The  project  he  kept 
profoundly  secret ;  resolved  not  to  mention  it  till  the 
moment  of  his  departure  should  arrive. 

The  ambitious  boy,  at  the  age  of  twelve  years, 
thoughtful,  melancholy,  and  lonely,  without  the  com 
mon  necessaries  of  life,  to  fulfil  the  expiring  wish  of 
his  father,  left  the  spot  that  had  long  been  the  dwell 
ing  of  his  childhood,  to  join  the  grammar  school  at 
Hadley,  Massachusetts.  He  knew  nothing  beyond  his 
rudiments,  yet,  in  less  than  a  year,  through  applica 
tion  and  most  intense  study,  he  was  fitted  for  college, 
and  entered  Brown  University,  September,  1817,  in 
advance  of  his  class. 


SUMXER   LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  11 

This  institution  was  then  under  the  direction  of 
President  Messer.  Those  of  his  class-mates  who  sur 
vive,  have  become  able  and  distinguished  men  in 
the  departments  they  occupy.  Mr.  Caswell,  whose 
mild  and  bland  manner,  and  whose  excellent  and 
benevolent  heart  has  endeared  him  to  all  who  know 
him,  for  several  years  has  distinguished  himself  as  an 
able  professor  in  the  high  station  he  fills  in  the  col 
lege  from  which  he  is  a  graduate.  Longfellow  has 
been  admired  for  his  belle-lettre  attainments  ;  his 
fortune  and  success  in  life,  has  given  him  the  ascen 
dancy  to  which  his  genius  entitles  him.  The  Rev. 
Benjamin  Cutler  has  been  long  venerated  and  beloved, 
as  a  learned,  faithful,  and  Christian  minister,  in  the 
church  he  serves.  Between  these  men  and  their  fel 
low-student,  there  existed  the  most  amicable  and  kind 
feeling.  It  could  not  well  be  otherwise — he  sought 
to  injure  no  one.  With  a  heart  alive  to  all  the  sensi 
bilities  of  our  nature — modest  and  unobtrusive,  though 
disposed  always  to  think  well  of  himself,  with  a  lofty 
mind,  and  a  pure  ambition,  it  was  not  his  disposition 
to  court  applause,  yet  his  love  of  approbation  was  so 
strong  as  to  create  in  his  young  mind  an  attempt  at 
distinction. 

From  the  first  ferment  of  his  boyish  dreams,  he  had 
nothing  in  his  favor,  neither  competence,  birth,  or 
connexions  ;  and  he  began  to  feel  the  world  a  mighty 
stage,  on  which,  it  is  true,  you  cannot  establish  a  foot 
ing  without  merit,  and  without  labour. 

He  had  not  been  in  college  but  a  little  while,  ere 
the  consequences  of  unmitigated  application  brought 
on  a  severe  illness,  which  almost  terminated  life.  As 
soon  as  his  health  permitted,  he  began  to  aid  in  his 


12  THE    LIFE    OF 

support  by  teaching  school  in  the  neighborhood  of  his 
college.  All  exertion,  however,  was  in  vain  ;  and  in 
the  midst  of  his  erudite  pursuits,  at  the  age  of  seven 
teen,  he  was  compelled  to  resign  his  eager  hopes  and 
dazzling  dreams,  and  depart  to  mingle  and  struggle 
with  the  cold  and  chilling  world. 

The  two  subsequent  years  were  spent  in  Georgia 
and  Carolina,  as  principal  of  academies.  Here,  in 
the  solitude  of  country  life,  his  poetic  imaginings 
awoke  within  his  uncommuning  heart.  Better,  far,  for 
rest  and  peace  to  himself,  and  those  to  whom  in  after 
life  he  became  allied,  that  they  had  slumbered  on 
forever  ! 

Two  pamphlets  of  rhymes  were  published,  during 
his  eighteenth  year,  from  which  he  ever  after  shrunk 
from  reading,  but  which — their  only  merit — contribu 
ted,  through  the  kindness  of  friends,  in  augmenting  lim 
ited  means,  and  thereby  added  to  the  comforts  of  his 
mother,  who,  at  that  time,  was  suffering  under  pain 
ful  and  protracted  illness. 

Shortly  after  this  period,  it  was  deemed  expedient 
that  the  author  should  fix  his  mind  upon  the  ministry, 
as  his  profession.  He  soon  made  up  his  mind  to  apply 
himself  to  the  study  of  Theology,  and  passed  some 
time  with  the  Rev.  Mr.  Cranston,  of  Christ's  Church 
Savannah. 

Before  he  had  completed  his  studies,  this  clergy 
man  left  Savannah,  to  visit  his  friends  in  Middletowu. 
Connecticut,  where,  in  1822,  he  died.  This  misfortune 
sealed  the  future  fate  of  the  poet.  He  gave  up,  at 
once,  his  determination  to  take  orders,  left  Savannah, 
and  sailed  for  New  York. 

Here,  new  obstacles  occurred.     After  a  lapse  of 


SUMNER   LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  13 

months,  without  means  or  friends,  (for  to  be  poor  is  to 
be  friendless — the  terms  are  often  synonymous,)  the 
poor  man's  bark  seemed  cast  upon  a  stormy  sea.  All 
but  intense  feeling  and  high  thought  was  cast  aside. 
All  ordinary  pursuits  seemed  vain  and  worthless,  and 
for  the  evanescent  rainbow  glimpses  of  imagination, 
all  the  paths  that  lead  to  opulence  and  power,  were 
forever  abandoned. 


14  THE    LIFE    OF 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  THE  pain  which  is  felt  when  we  are  transplanted 
from  our  own  native  soil,  when  the  living  branch  is 
cut  from  the  parent  tree,  is  one  of  the  most  poignant 
which  we  have  to  endure  through  life.  There  are 
after-griefs  which  wound  more  deeply,  and  leave  behind 
them  scars  never  to  be  effaced  ;  which  bruise  the  spirit 
and  sometimes  break  the  heart ;  but  never  do  we  feel 
so  keenly  the  want  of  love,  the  necessity  of  being 
loved,  and  the  sense  of  utter  desertion,  as  when  we 
first  leave  the  haven  of  home,  and  are,  as  it  were, 
pushed  off  upon  the  stream  of  life." 

The  decision  was  made.  Literature  henceforth,  he 
conceived,  was  to  distinguish  him  from  the  world.  In 
this  belief  he  went  forth  ;  and  though  he  was  advised  to 
forsake  a  path  that  could  not  lead  to  one  of  roses,  and 
told  by  others,  who  had  already  embarked  in  this  un 
profitable  pursuit,  that,  the  moment  he  attempted  dis 
tinction,  he  would  be  abused,  calumniated,  and  sigh 
for  his  old  obscurity  ;  for  this  he  cared  not — he  thought 
of  nothing  but  the  glorious  fate  he  had  in  view ;  to 
have  an  influence  on  the  vast  and  ever-growing  mind 
of  such  a  country  as  ours ;  to  be  the  medium  of  circu 
lating  new  ideas,  in  a  new  world  ;  to  become  the  pi 
oneer,  in  so  good  a  cause,  of  upholding  the  "  glorious 
priesthood "  of  the  honest  and  the  beautiful.  This 
was  the  highest  ambition  of  the  poor  scholar. 


SUMNER   LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  15 

For  this  purpose,  he  determined  and  decided  upon, 
a  trans-atlantic  voyage,  to  visit  Europe  for  a  time 
This  was  happily  accomplished,  and  in  December, 
1825,  he  set  sail  from  New  York  to  London.  Upon 
his  arrival  in  the  great  Metropolis,  wild  with  delight, 
he  felt  inspired  with  all  he  saw  and  heard.  His  young, 
ardent,  and  enthusiastic  spirit,  went  out  in  all  its  glo 
rious  imaginings ;  he  sought  the  abodes  of  the  poets  ; 
he  communed  with  Wordsworth  and  Campbell  ;  he 
began  to  taste,  for  the  first  time,  the  transport,  the 
intoxication  of  an  author ;  and  though  he  had  written 
but  few  things,  he  fancied  that  he  was  formed  to  do 
something  in  the  world,  and  in  his  young  mind  deci 
ded  he  was  to  become  a  man  of  books,  rather  than  a 
man  of  deeds. 

Perhaps  no  young  man  ever  left  America  with 
prouder  credentials  ;  these  introduced  him  at  once  to 
the  publishers  of  literary  periodicals.  He  was  soon 
solicited  to  write  for  the  "  Oriental  Herald  ;"  a  work 
then  edited  by  Mr.  Buckingham,  who  has  since  been 
a  lecturer  in  this  country,  on  his  travels  in  the  East. 
The  following  letter  contains  Mr.  Buckingham's  pro-? 
posals  to  the  author  : 

GROVE  END  ROAD,  St  John's  Wood. 

DEAR  SIR  :—- 1  return  the  "  Lord  of  the  Wild,"  as  I 
should  prefer  inserting  the  "  Cities  of  the  Plain,"  in 
the  Herald,  if  room  can  he  found  for  either.  In  this 
case,  however,  I  think  it  will  be  advisable  to  retrench 
in  a  few  places,  not  amounting,  perhaps,  to  more  than' 
fifty  lines  in  the  whole  ;  which,  if  yqu  will  entrust  to 
my  discretion,  I  shall  do  with  all  due  regard  to  the 
unity  and  effect  of  the  poem.  This  is  a  privilege 


16  THE    LIFE    OP 

which  we  find  it  necessary  to  exercise  on  all  produc 
tions  submitted  to  us  ;  and  one  to  which,  I  have  no 
doubt,  you  will  readily  assent.  Indeed,  without  this 
it  would  be  impossible  to  perform  the  duty  of  editor 
satisfactorily,  or  adjust  the  various  and  conflicting 
considerations  of  length,  style,  subject,  and  so  forth, 
into  one  harmonious  whole. 

The  rate  of  remuneration  we  have  already  fixed  at 
half  a  guinea  per  printed  page  ;  and  the  usual  rule  is, 
I  believe,  that  payment  be  made  immediately  on  the 
publication  of  the  article  inserted.  If  these  conditions 
be  acceptable,  I  shall  retain  the  "  Cities  of  the  Plain,'* 
and  give  it  the  earliest  possible  insertion. 
I  am,  dear  sir, 

Yours  very  truly, 
J.  S.  BUCKINGHAM. 

March  26,  1825. 

For  the  "  Oriental  Herald,"  he  wrote  his  poem  en 
titled  "  The  Cities  of  the  Plain."  For  all  his  writings 
while  abroad,  he  received  a  half  guinea  a  page.  This 
offer,  in  the  setting  out  of  his  career,  revived  his 
hopes,  and  encouraged  his  heart. 

"  The  Cities  of  the  Plain "  was  eulogized  by  the 
press,  and  read  by  the  clergy  as  a  great  production 
for  an  American  Poet. 

Soon  after  its  publication,  Joanna  Baillie  sent  for 
him  to  breakfast  with  her.  The  following  note  was 
received  by  the  poet : 

HOLLY-BUSH  HILL,  HAMPSTEAD,  > 
Friday,  Feb.  7,  1825.      \ 

Mrs.  Joanna  Baillie  presents  her  compliments  to 
Mr.  Fairfield,  and  requests  the  favor  of  his  company 
to  breakfast,  next  Monday,  at  half-past  nine,  which 


SUMNER    LINCOLN    FAIEFIELD.  17 

she  hopes  will  not  be  inconveniently  early.  She  is 
sorry  that  engagements  and  other  circumstances  oblige 
her  to  name  so  distant  a  day  for  having  the  pleasure 
of  receiving  Mr.  Fairfield,  but  trusts  that  his  residence 
in  Hampstead  will  continue  beyond  that  time.  She 
takes  the  liberty  of  retaining  his  small  volume,  in 
which  are  much  of  the  feelings  and  imaginations  of 
a  poet,  till  Monday  morning,  when  she  will  restore  it 
to  the  author,  with  many  thanks. 

He  enjoyed  life  when  among  corresponding  natures  ; 
he  pursued  the  path  most  suited  to  himself,  without 
declaring  it  to  be  the  best  for  others.  He  was  a  little 
hard,  perhaps,  upon  the  errors  that  belong  to  vanity 
and  conceit,  not  to  those  that  have  their  source  in 
great  natures  and  generous  thoughts.  Among  his 
characteristics,  was  a  profound  admiration  for  England. 

His  own  country  he  half  loved,  yet  half  disdained  ; 
he  loved  a  republic,  yet  disliked  the  mob.  He  could 
not  bear  that  the  ignorant  and  illiterate  should  rule ; 
he  subscribed  to  no  aristocracy  but  intelligence  and 
intellect.  I  am  reminded  of  a  conversation  that  took 
place  (some  time  after  our  marriage)  between  my 
husband  and  a  man  who  boasted  of  family  distinction. 
"  For  myself,"  said  he,  "  I  could  not  be  proud  of  a  pe 
digree,  but  of  some  historical  quarterings  in  my  an 
cestry,  of  the  blood  of  Scholars,  that  runs  in  my  veins. 
It  is  the  same  kind  of  pride  that  an  American  may 
feel  in  belonging  to  a  country  that  has  produced  a 
Bryant  and  a  Halleck."  He  never  felt  that  vulgar 
pride  that  disdains  a  \vant  of  birth  in  others,  and  he 
cared  not  whether  his  friend  or  his  wife  were  de 
scended  from  a  queen  or  a  peasant. 


18  THE    LIFE    OF 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MONTHS  passed  away,  and  our  young  poet  found 
himself  delighted  and  caressed  by  all  into  whose  soci 
ety  it  was  his  good  fortune  to  mingle.  He  published 
his  tour  in  Europe,  and  contributed  the  articles  to 
a  literary  periodical  then  edited  by  James  G.  Brooks, 
Esq.,  in  New  York.  In  his  remarks  on  England,  per 
haps  he  was  just ;  and  though  he  admired  many  of  her 
institutions,  loved  her  antiquity,  her  literature,  and 
system,  which  is  so  perfect,  he  could  not  refrain  from  ex 
pressing  his  abhorrence  to  the  conduct  of  the  clergy, 
their  indulgencies,  and  want  of  religion ;  perhaps,  in 
this  respect,  he  carried  his  feelings  too  far  ;  he  looked 
for,  and  expected  too  great  perfection  in  mten,  who 
possess  dispositions  in  common  with  mankind.  He 
contrasted  the  merits  of  the  clergy  of  both  countries ; 
he  could  not  find  abroad,  the  self-sacrificing,  spiritual, 
and  moral  men,  that  as  a  mass  characterize  our  na 
tion.  Upon  this  subject  he  expressed  himself  too  freely. 
It  -was  his  practice  through  life  to  disclaim  openly 
against  imposition,  from  however  high  a  source.  This 
frankness,  without  judgment,  led  him  into  many  diffi 
culties,  and  was  the  primary  cause  of  creating  to  him 
self,  early  in  life,  many  enemies. 

From  England  he  went  to  France.  He  made  his 
abode  for  a  short  time  in  Paris  ;  here,  his  feelings 
underwent  another  change.  Paris  is  a  delightful 


SUMNER   LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  19 

place  to  the  gay  and  idle ;  but  to  the  literary  man, 
Paris  is  not  equal  to  England,  or  Germany.  There  is 
too  much  of  the  flippant,  and  not  enough  of  the  grave, 
to  interest  one  whose  feelings  were  sad  in  the  sun 
shine,  and  gay  in  storms.  In  the  midst  of  the  rev 
elries,  and  gayeties  that  surrounded  him,  when  his 
heart  was  weighed  down  in  the  scale,  it  was  his  mind 
that  restored  the  balance. 

His  principal  letters  of  introduction  were  to  Mr. 
James  Brown,  our  amiable  and  excellent  Minister 
Plenipotentiary  to  France,  and  the  good  La  Fayette ; 
by  them  he  was  received  in  a  kind  and  hospitable 
manner,  and  in  company  with  our  distinguished  dra 
matist,  John  Howard  Payne,  attended  several  fetes 
given  by  Mr.  Brown,  at  the  palace  of  Luxembourg. 

The  love  La  Fayette  bore  our  young  American  is 
affectionately  expressed  in  several  letters  in  my  pos 
session,  that  were  sent  to  him  while  a  resident  in 
France. 

From  Paris  he  went  to  Versailles,  and  had  his  suite 
of  apartments  opposite  the  Palace.  The  scenes  of  ter 
ror  that  were  enacted  during  the  terrible  revolution  of 
France,  and  overthrow  of  Louis  XVI.,  were  subjects 
for  his  imagination  and  pen. 

"  What  a  luxury  is  there  in  that  first  love  of  the 
muse  ;  that  process  by  which  we  give  a  palpable 
form  to  the  beautiful  dreams  which  have  flitted  across 
us  ;  the  inspiration  which  we  invoke  in  the  sanctuary 
of  our  still  closets,  with  the  wand  of  the  simple  pen  !" 

While  in  Versailles,  he  wrote  "  Pere  La  Chaise," 
and  "  Westminster  Abbey  ;"  two  of  his  most  admired 
pieces. 

At  Versailles  he  continued  to  write.     The  scenery 


20  THE    LIFE    OF 


around,  and  the  quiet,  harmonized  with  his  feelings  ; 
he  read  and  thought  much.  Removed  at  a  distance 
from  Paris,  where  dwelt  many  of  his  American  and 
English  friends,  he  lived  almost  in  solitude,  so  far  as 
familiar  companionship  is  concerned.  His  ideas  and 
memories  now  crowded  thick  upon  him. 

A  short  time  previous  to  his  journey  to  Europe,  he 
formed  an  attachment  to  a  young  lady  residing  in  a 
small  town  called  Derby,  near  New  Haven.  I  be 
lieve  it  was  reciprocated  on  the  part  of  the  lady,  but 
an  unfortunate  engagement  to  a  relative  of  her  name, 
prevented  their  union.  This  was  a  severe  and  bitter 
trial ;  he  strove  to  conceal,  though  he  could  not  con 
quer  the  emotion ;  and  like  all  men,  he  loved  more,  be 
cause  the  object  could  not  be  obtained.  The  image 
of  his  favorite  pursued,  it  haunted  him,  it  came  on 
him  unawares,  in  solitude,  in  crowds.  It  was  that 
youthful  and  luxurious  bloom  of  pure  and  holy  thought, 
which  is  the  first  blossom  of  genius.  Struggle  after 
struggle  ensued,  and  time  only  served  to  engrave  more 
deeply  the  ineradicable  impression.  He  was  strong  in 
the  belief  that  if  he  returned  to  America,  and  found 
the  lady  unmarried,  he  should  overcome  every  barrier 
that  might  exist  to  their  union. 

With  this  intention,  forgetting  for  a  season  his  high 
and  noble  purposes,  he  insisted  upon  leaving  France, 
and  immediately  took  passage,  and  returned  to  New 
York,  in  July,  1826.  He  soon  ascertained  that  the 
young  lady  was  married,  but  never  forgot  his  first 
romantic  passion. 


SUMMER   LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  .       21 


CHAPTER  V. 

IT  is  the  contemplation  of  a  different  scene  that  the 
course  of  the  author's  life  now  conducts  us.  On  his 
return  to  his  native  land,  he  was  greeted,  applauded, 
flattered,  and  courted,  until  the  novelty  had  passed, 
by  his  countrymen,  and  countrywomen.  He  had 
achieved  honors  that  could  not  be  conferred  on  him 
at  home ;  for,  alas,  the  Americans  are  a  vain,  not  a 
proud  people.  They  see  with  other  people's  eyes, 
hear  with  other  people's  ears,  decide  with  other  peo 
ple's  judgment,  and  parrot  forth  other  people's  opi 
nions. 

I  love  my  country,  though  I  regret  the  want  of  inde 
pendence,  character,  and  manner  of  the  Americans. 
Well  would  it  be  for  us  to  vie  with  England  in  prizing 
what  is  really  valuable  at  home  ;  this  we  can  do, 
without  depreciating  the  good  that  comes  from  abroad. 

As  soon  as  our  author  had  exchanged  the  usual 
greetings  that  pass  between  young  men  and  their 
companions,  he  began  to  feel,  at  the  early  age  of 
twenty-two,  a  disappointed  and  desolate  man.  It  is 
true  he  had  a  mother,  and  though  her  affections  were 
centered  in  this  only  child,  she  had  no  knowledge  of  a 
proper  course  necessary  to  be  pursued  in  his  domestic  ed 
ucation.  Instead  of  cultivating  in  his  mind  a  manly 
and  independent  spirit,  she  sought  and  succeeded  in 
impressing  him,  from  a  child,  that  he  was  utterly  help- 


22       -  THE    LIFE    OF 

less,  and  dependent  entirely  upon  her  exertions.  H*  1 
he  possessed  a  guide  from  his  youth,  to  have  instilled 
in  his  mind  that  confidence  in  himself,  which  makes 
even  the  boy  manly  and  firm,  he  would  undoubtedly 
have  mixed  with  the  world,  and  occupied  himself  with 
the  aims  and  pursuits  of  others. 

Why  is  it  that  poets  must  be  children  ?  Why  ?  bat 
that  he  who  dispenses  his  gifts,  does  not  prefer  to 
shower  them  all  upon  one  head.  If  it  were  possible 
for  men  of  genius  to  have  intimate  knowledge  of  men, 
as  well  as  nature,  to  realize  flesh  and  blood,  to 
leave  the  skies  and  stars,  and  become  familiar  with 
tradesmen  and  merchants,  their  way  in  life  would  be 
less  solitary — prejudices  and  envies  would  die  oiF; 
they  would  find  in  the  deep  heart  of  the  world  sympa 
thy  with  their  motives  and  career.  Some  coarse  and 
homely  pursuit  of  practical  life,  would  leave  their 
minds  repose,  while  it  would  bring  vigor  and  health 
to  their  bodies,  and  render  thought  much  less  painful. 

As  I  have  said,  the  author  began  to  feel  a  disap 
pointed  and  solitary  man.  He  had  in  him  a  spirit  of 
emulation — sometimes  exasperated  by  the  sarcasms 
of  foes,  at  others  cheered  by  the  applause  of  friends. 
The  desire  of  fame  was  getting  to  be  the  habit  of  his 
existence.  With  what  he  had  written  he  was  dissat 
isfied.  When  in  these  seasons  of  despondency,  he  felt 
that  his  frame  could  not  support  his  mind  ;  that  he 
could  no  longer  execute  what  he  conceived  and  de 
sired. 

Almost  immediately  upon  his  return  to  New  York, 
he  published  a  volume  of  Poems,  entitled  "  The  Sisters 
of  Saint  Clara,"  a  tale  of  Portugal,  written  while  a 
resident  at  Versailles.  The  edition  was  small,  and  as 


SUMNER   LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  23 

it  is  not  embraced  among  his  later  publications,  it  has 
been  seldom  seen,  or  read.  The  poet's  high  regard 
and  veneration  for  the  learning  and  literary  attain 
ments  of  Mr.  Everett,  then  a  professor  in  Cambridge 
University,  induced  him  to  dedicate  to  him  this  poem. 
The  following  letter  was  the  reply  from  this  distin 
guished  person  : 

CAMBRIDGE,  February  9,  1826. 

DEAR  SIR  : — I  received  a  short  time  since,  your  po 
lite  letter,  and  afterwards,  the  poem  you  were  good 
enough  to  send  me.  Numerous  avocations  of  a  na 
ture  to  leave  me  scarce  any  leisure,  have  prevented 
my  earlier  acknowledgement  of  your  attention.  I 
cannot  but  be  flattered  at  this  public  mark  of  respect 
which  you  have  done  me  the  honor  to  pay  me,  in  the 
dedication  of  your  poem,  and  wish  it  were  in  my 
power,  in  any  way  that  could  show  my  proper  sense  of 
its  value,  to  requite  this  compliment.  From  any  public 
tribute  to  the  merit  of  your  production,  you  have  fairly 
disabled  me  ;  as  I  could  gain  no  credit  for  disinterest 
edness  in  commending  a  poem,  to  which  my  own  name 
is  thus  honorably  appended.  I  must  content  myself, 
therefore,  with  privately  saying  to  you,  that  "  I  have 
read  it,"  (namely,  the  Sisters  of  Saint  Clara,)  "  with 
great  interest.  The  story  is  excellent,  the  incidents 
brought  out  with  skill,  the  versification  easy,  often 
highly  so,  and  the  range  of  poetical  imagery  wide  and 
lofty."  I  have  never  been  in  the  habit  of  addressing 
those  of  my  friends  who  have  thought  it  worth  while 
to  ask  my  opinion,  to  look  to  poetry  as  a  means  of  at 
taining  all  the  objects  which,  in  your  letter,  you  inti 
mate  that  you  are  bound  to  pursue.  A  professional 
career  of  some  kind,  is  certainly,  in  this  country,  a 


THE    LIFE    OF 


better  resource.  Had  you  nothing  in  view  but  poeti 
cal  fame,  I  think  you  have  given  abundant  proof,  in 
this  and  your  earlier  efforts,  of  being  able  to  attain  a 
gratifying  share. 

Renewing  my  thanks  for  your  polite  attentions,  and 
with  the  assurance  that  it  would  give  me  pleasure  to 
be  of  service  to  you, 

I  am,  dear  sir, 

Your  obliged  servant, 

EDWARD  EVERETT. 


SUMNER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  25 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IT  is  quite  impossible  to  trace,  step  by  step,  the 
incidents  of  the  life  of  one  so  fraught  with  changes : 
I  believe  that  part  of  biography  which  would  in 
terest  the  most,  is  generally  omitted.  "  Thought,  hope, 
sorrow,  fear,  how  prolix  would  they  be,  if  they  might 
each  tell  their  hourly  tale  !  Alas  !  our  most  accurate 
confessions  are  a  most  miserly  abridgment  of  a  hur 
ried  and  confused  summary." 

It  was  about  three  weeks  after  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Fairfield  from  Europe,  when  he  accidentally  met  me  at 
a  small  party  at  the  house  of  a  young  friend  I  then  had, 
residing  at  Jersey  City.  We  met ;  two  little  words,  and 
yet  how  many  volumes  do  they  suggest  to  my  care-worn 
and  troubled  heart.  A  few  brief  years  have  passed 
since  that  event  found  me,  on  a  bright  and  sunny  after 
noon,  /ww  gay  and  happy,  few  now  can  know,  for  the 
companions  of  my  childhood,  many  of  them,  have  gone 
to  that  sleep  "  which  knows  no  waking."  I  have  still 
sweet  visions  of  those  lost  and  dim  remembered  days. 

The  time  sped  rapidly  the  few  days  that  intervened 
ere  the  proposal  was  made,  and  the  day  appointed  for 
the  marriage  ceremony — second  only  in  solemnity  to 
the  burial  service,  to  which  it  is  often  a  preliminary 
September  20th,  1826,  we  were  wedded  in  New 
Brunswick,  New  Jersey. 

My  maiden  name  was  Frazee.     My  father  was  de 
3 


THE    LIFE    CP 


ng 


scended  from  the  Scotch  ;  our  ancestors  dwelt  among 
the  "banks  and  braes"  of  that  beautiful  and  romantic 
country.  Of  my  parents  I  have  much  to  be  proud.  My 
father  was  never  the  proprietor  of  large  possessions  ; 
he  was  celebrated  for  industry,  frugality,  and  a  high 
regard  for  honor  and  honesty  ;  a  supporter  of  indepen 
dent  principles,  and  valued  himself  on  independence. 
He  was  a  democrat  after  the  "  old  school."  Washing 
ton  was  never  more  loyal  in  his  love  for  his  country. 
He  died  in  October,  1844,  in  the  seventieth  year  of  his 
age.  His  career  was  closed  as  an  honest  man — "  the 
noblest  work  of  God." 

Of  my  beloved  mother,  who  still  survives,  for  all 
her  maternal  love,  I  retain  a  spiritual  memory.  She, 
indeed,  has  been  my  good  angel ;  how  often,  in  seasons 
of  sorrow,  have  I  contemplated  her  blessed  form,  that 
by  the  rays  of  some  flickering  light,  seemed  to  bend 
over  her  desolate  child.  With  a  heart  full  of  tender 
ness,  she  has  ever  been  ready  to  sacrifice  herself  for 
the  good  of  others.  She  is  by  nature  religious,  pos 
sessing  all  the  graces  of  mind  and  person.  Few  wo 
men  more  deservedly  merit  the  title  of  gentlewoman. 
J  pray  death  may  not  soon  dissolve  this  tie. 

I  must  now  beg  pardon  of  the  public,  if  in  the  future 
I  am  found  sometimes  making  mention  of  myself. 
Here,  the  task  of  pleasure- writing  ceases.  The  future 
is  fraught,  not  with  fancies,  or  shadows  ;  but  realities, 
if  told,  would  seem  falsehoods.  Indeed,  I  am  at  a  loss 
to  know  if  it  would  not  be  as  well  to  commence  with 
a  history  of  myself,  since  from  my  early  marriage,  cir 
cumstances,  (not  choice.)  made  me  the  actor. 

In  literature,  as  in  the  arts  and  sciences,  we  see  much 
to  admire.  It  is  allied  to  struggles,  poverty  and  per- 


SUMNER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  27 

secution ;  and  therefore,  its  votaries  suffer  more  keenly 
from  family  alliances.  Woman  is  made  a  dependent 
being,  and  loses  her  attractions  when  employed  in 
masculine  avocations ;  and  nothing  brings  a  man  so 
soon  into  contempt,  as  a  dependence  upon  woman  for 
support.  I  am  convinced  that  a  man  ought  never  to 
attempt  with  literature  alone,  (especially  in  this 
country,  where  the  literati  are  beggars,)  as  the  mere 
provision  of  his  daily  bread.  The  pursuit  of  fame  is  a 
pursuit  apart  from  the  ordinary  objects  of  life,  and  it 
is  impossible  to  command  the  enjoyments  of  both  ;  for 
this  reason,  the  poet  should  be  wedded  to  the  objects 
of  his  affection,  namely,  the  muses. 

Our  fancy  for  each  other  was  unequivocal ;  how 
strange  it  is,  that  melancholy  men  are  often  capti 
vated  by  the  gay  and  vivacious  girl — thus  matches 
are  made  by  the  young  and  thoughtless,  from  mo 
mentary  impressions,  instead  of  profound  and  passion 
ate  sentiment,  which  we  can  only  derive  from  a  per 
fect  knowledge  of  each  other's  minds  and  hearts. 
What  a  magic  there  is  in  that  love  which  brings  re 
spect, — a  sort  of  attachment  that  is  abiding,  honest, 
generous  and  intense  ! 

Immediately  after  our  marriage,  my  husband  fixed 
his  residence  in  Elizabethtown,  a  few  miles  from  the 
home  of  my  parents ;  he  did  so,  with  a  desire  of  form 
ing  a  Classical  School  for  young  men.  His  leisure 
hours,  he  determined  to  devote  more  eagerly  to  study, 
and  the  pursuit  of  fame.  We  had  not  lived  out  the 
honey-moon,  when  one  of  those  occurrences  so  common 
to  genius  broke  forth.  The  officers,  for  debt,  levied  on 
our  household  effects,  and,  though  the  sum  was  small, 
the  money  to  liquidate  the  amount  could  not  be  ob- 


28  THE    LIFE    OF 


tained;  and  in  the  short  space  of  three  weeks,  oar 
joint  possessions  were  sold  under  the  sheriff's  ham 
mer.  Under  this  mortifying  affliction,  and  before  ray 
husband  could  execute  the  plan  he  had  formed  of 
establishing  a  school,  he  was  forced  to  relinquish  his 
situation,  (for  village  scandal  and  village  gossip  pre 
ponderated,)  and  return  to  New  York.  After  passing 
a  few  days  among  his  friends,  he  decided  upon  making 
his  native  State  his  home  ;  and,  in  the  month  of  No 
vember,  scarcely  two  months  after  our  marriage,  we 
arrived  in  Boston.  Here,  he  eagerly  sought  acquaint 
ances  among  the  editors  of  works  who  paid  for  contri 
butions — though  the  sum  was  always  inadequate  to 
supply  his  daily  wants.  Alas  !  for  the  poor  bard,  he 
had  not  that  readiness  of  resources — that  faculty  with 
out  which  man  has  no  independence  from  the  world. 
He  seemed  always  to  suffer  from  a  painful  fastidious 
ness  he  felt  when  asking  for  his  own.  He  possessed 
an  unaccountable  reluctance  in  all  business  matters  ; 
he  would  often  make  his  mother  the  bearer  of  his 
despatches,  and  her  verbal  messages  back  would  not 
always  leave  his  mind  unprejudiced.  Upon  examina 
tion,  however,  he  found  he  was  not  the  object  of  dis 
like,  but  his  want  of  knowledge  of  discernment ;  he 
wanted  address — that  sort  of  suavity  which  would 
have  enabled  him  to  retain  the  aid  of  others  while  in 
a  state  of  dependence — a  certain  manner  which  wins 
its  way  into  the  hearts  of  all. 

How  true  it  is  that  children  catch  not  from  their 
parents,  only,  but  from  those  they  most  see,  and  lov 
ing  most,  most  imitate  in  their  tender  years. 

Weeks  and  months  passed  away,  and  brought  with 
them  many  unwelcome  events  which  would  be  in 


BUHNER    LIXCOLX    FAIRFIELD.  29 

compatible  to  relate  ;  and  which,  if  ever  known,  must 
be  written  by  a  more  dispassionate  biographer  than  I 
feel  myself  to  be. 

Well  would  it  be  for  us,  if  indeed  the  mind  could 
profit  by  "  the  wrecks  of  every  passion  ;"  for  then 
could  we  measure  our  road  to  wisdom  by  the  sorrows 
we  had  borne. 

Time  passed  on.  I  endeavoured  gradually  and 
silently  to  reconcile  myself  to  my  lot ;  often  weeping 
in  solitude  that  our  marriage  was  not  blessed. 

My  poor  husband  seemed  condemned  to  a  mysteri 
ous  destiny ;  he  had  few  friends  now,  and  having 
really  strong  affections,  he  felt  keenly,  but  rather  with 
resentment  than  grief.  Instead  of  mourning  over  cau 
ses,  he  mourned  over  facts — he  blamed  fate,  not  him 
self.  With  the  foibles  of  his  mother  he  was  well  ac 
quainted,  and  though  he  did  not  doubt  her  love,  he 
suspected  her  want  of  judgment,  and  pride  of  charac 
ter — yet  continued  through  life  subject  to  her  control. 

Deprived  of  his  father's  care  from  infancy,  having 
little  or  no  intercourse  with,  children  of  his  own  age, 
and  taught  to  act  under  his  mother's  diplomacy,  with 
her  favours  constantly  dinned  into  his  ear,  no  wonder 
he  grew  up  solitary,  unsocial,  and  imperious. 

For  the  short  time  he  lived  in  Boston,  he  wrote  and 
thought  much.  Some  of  his  poetry  contains  the  soft 
est  sentiment.  He  had  but  one  fault ;  he  pondered 
too  much  on  his  mortifications  and  ill-usage.  Like 
Byron,  he  would  feel  morose  to  all  who  did  not  sym 
pathize  with  his  own  morbid  fancies ;  and  leave  his 
best  friends  to  write  a  poem  on  solitude.  It  is  thus 
the  poor  author  sighs  for  renown,  to  purchase  shad 
ows  at  a  high  price.  Spring  was  advancing,  and  the 


30  THE    LIFE    OF 


poet  found  himself  and  family  without  happiness 
home.  The  proposal  was  made,  and  back  again  from 
Boston  to  New  York  wandered  the  desolate  steps  of 
the  child  of  poverty  and  sorrow. 

It  was  on  a  cold  and  stormy  afternoon;  he  set  out  on 
his  journey  from  Boston  to  Roxbury,  without  biddi  ng 
adieu  to  friends,  for  whom  my  heart  still  cherishes  a 
fondness — on  foot,  without  means,  through  one  of 
those  dreary  New  England  snows,  my  husband  led 
me.  We  stopped  at  a  comfortless  inn  until  the  dawn  of 
morning.  From  this  place  we  took  the  stage  to  Pro 
vidence  ;  there  he  left  me  among  strangers,  to  remain 
until  he  could  send  me  the  means  to  return  to  New 
York. 

At  length  carne  the  time  that  we  were  again  uni 
ted  ;  hope  once  more  cheered  my  heart.  I  never 
doubted  my  husband's  determination  and  desire  to  do 
something  that  would  place  him  in  an  independent 
position.  He  laboured  industriously  with  his  pen ; 
but  while  engaged  in  writing  an  article  which  would 
bring  the  sum  of  ten  dollars,  perhaps  his  bills  amount 
ed  to  twenty.  It  was  ever  thus  with  him ;  the  offi 
cers  in  quest  of  their  booty,  frightened  and  alarmed 
him ;  and  before  he  could  obtain  the  means  to  defray 
debts,  with,  as  he  thought,  but  one  alternative,  he 
would  leave  the  place  he  was  in,  and  plunge  into  a 
similar  dilemma. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few  weeks,  my  husband  con 
sented  to  a  request  which  I  had  frequently  made,  to 
permit  me  to  return  to  my  friends  until  he  should  fix 
himself  in  a  condition  for  a  comfortable  and  inde 
pendent  home. 

For  this  purpose,  he  wrote  frequently  to  Mr.  Daniel 


SUMNER   LINCOLN    FAIRFIE1D.  31 

Bryan,  then  a  resident  and  post-master  at  Alexandria, 
District  of  Columbia,  who  obtained  a  situation  as 
teacher  of  a  small  school  in  Charlestown,  Virginia ; 
worth,  perhaps,  about  four  hundred  dollars  a  year  ; 
not  half  a  support,  but  \vhich  the  poet  accepted  until 
something  more  lucrative  should  offer.  In  the  month 
of  July  he  set  off  upon  this  new  adventure.  On 
reaching  Alexandria,  he  was  solicited  to  remain  at  the 
house  of  his  friend.  Mr.  Bryan  had  written  some  po 
etry,  and  I  believe  valued  himself  as  an  author.  It 
was  not  long  before  the  two  friends  quarrelled ;  and 
though  they  parted  apparently  amicable,  the  breach, 
as  the  sequel  will  show,  was  final. 

On  his  arrival  in  Charlestown,  he  was  introduced 
to  a  Mr.  Galagher,  the  then  editor  of  a  small  weekly 
village  paper  in  that  place.  The  mind  of  the  author 
was  ill  at  ease  when  he  discovered  that  the  place  pre 
pared  for  his  reception  was  a  log  house  several  miles 
from  the  town,  and  distant  a  mile  and  a  half  from  any 
dwelling.  Although  the  world  was  hateful  to  him, 
this  was  a  little  too  much  solitude.  He  determined 
at  the  end  of  the  quarter  to  remove  to  Harper's  Ferry 
— not  far  distant  from  the  place  he  was  now  in.  He 
informed  Mr.  Galagher  of  his  disgust  for  the  place — • 
gave  up  his  school,  and  left. 


32  THE    LIFE    OF 


CHAPTER  VII. 

HARPER'S  FERRY  is  known  as  one  of  the  most  beau 
tiful  and  romantic  places  on  the  American  continent. 
The  gorgeous  mountains  on  either  side  of  the  beauti- 
tiful  Shenandoah — the  rugged  rocks  on  which  you 
stand,  from  their  immense  height,  to  view  the  scenes 
below,  around  and  above,  all  acted  as  a  charm  to  his 
enthusiastic  and  imaginative  mind. 

He  soon  found  himself  the  favourite  of  the  people. 
He  had  a  winning  manner,  if  not  to  persons,  to  chil 
dren  ;  he  was  the  more  so,  perhaps,  from  his  own  friend 
less  and  solitary  boyhood.  Encouraged  to  hope  for 
success,  he  did  not  fail  to  use  all  his  energies,  and  in 
a  few  weeks  obtained  the  principal  pupils  in  the  place. 

Just  as  he  had  formed  his  thoughts  and  hopes  for 
success — his  health,  always  impaired,  because  always 
preyed  upon  by  a  nervous  and  feverish  spirit — became 
visibly  affected ;  and  at  the  termination  of  three 
months,  a  fever  set  in.  The  physicians  were  sent  for  ; 
they  decided  that  the  climate  was  injurious — that  a 
northern  atmosphere  was  most  conducive  to  his  health. 
A  faint  flush  passed  over  his  faded  cheek,  as  he  turned 
away  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  a  chill  sinking  of  the 
frame,  saying,  "  Am  I  never  to  have  a  home  ?" 

While  yet  an  invalid,  and  before  he  was  even  in  a 
state  of  convalescence,  he  left  Harper's  Ferry,  and  ar 
rived  in  Philadelphia  late  in  the  fall  of  1828.  Wearv, 


SOINER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  33 

worn,  and  sad,  his  first  satisfaction  became  mingled 
with  anxiety — he  had  for  a  long  time  been  estranged 
from  his  literary  friends,  and  the  state  of  literature  in 
that  city.  He  determined,  however,  to  prepare  his 
poems,  and  publish  a  volume  of  which  he  might  feel 
proud.  He  felt  quite  sure  that  fate  could  not  present 
to  him  visions  darker  or  more  terrible  than  he  had 
already  felt.  Alas  !  he  had  scarcely  commenced  the 
ordeal  through  which  he  was  about  to  pass. 

In  this  new  publication,  his  most  sanguine  hopes 
were  realized.  All  things  for  a  time  seemed  to  pros 
per.  "  The  Cities  of  the  Plain,"  the  poem  that  gained 
him  a  reputation  in  England,  with  some  of  his  best 
fugitive  pieces,  was  about  to  be  republished  in  this 
country.  Just  at  this  period,  when  his  fortunes  seem 
ed  to  brighten  up,  he  met  accidentally  with  a  volume 
of  poems,  the  author  of  which  was  his  professed 
friend,  Mr.  Bryan.  The  remembrance  of  the  old  feud 
was  still  fresh  in  his  mind  ;  he  sought,  perhaps,  this 
opportunity  for  retaliation,  and  "  reviewed  his  ene 
my's  book."  The  review  was  a  terrible  sarcasm — the 
ridicule  was  more  pointed  on  some  stanzas  that  were 
composed  on  La  Fayette's  return  to  France  from  a 
visit  to  America. 

As  we  are  sometimes  punished  in  this  life  for  our 
indiscretions,  so  the  poor  poet  suffered  for  this.  Mr. 
Galagher,  the  person  formerly  mentioned,  residing  in 
Charlestown,  Virginia,  and  editor  of  a  paper,  was  an 
acquaintance  and  correspondent  of  Mr.  Bryan.  So 
soon  as  the  review  reached  them,  they  conferred  to 
gether,  and  adopted  a  plan  which  they  thought  would 
forever  crush  the  destroyer  of  their  fame.  They 
printed  large  hand-bills,  which  they  packed  in  boxes, 


34  THE  LIFE    OF 

and  sent  throughout  the  country,  with  directions  to 
their  agents  to  be  posted  up  in  every  public  place. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  observe  that  this  sheet  con 
tained  falsehoods  of  the  deepest  dye.  How  this  af 
fair  affected  the  feelings  of  the  poet,  is  better  imagin 
ed  than  described. 

So  strange  a  compound  is  human  nature,  that  false 
hoods,  when  uttered  in  a  bold  and  daring  manner, 
have  their  influence. among  the  best  of  men.  This 
slander  created  a  fearful  revolution  in  the  poor  man's 
destiny — and  poetry  for  once  served  as  a  material  by 
which  he  obtained  for  himself  and  his  family  their 
daily  bread. 

It  was  at  this  crisis,  friendless,  broken  in  spirit, 
sunken  in  despair,  that  George  D.  Prentice,  Esq.,  came 
out  at  once,  and  forever  his  friend ;  and  in  a  paper 
he  then  edited  in  Hartford,  avowed  himself  as  such. 
This  attachment  was  unbroken  ;  they  loved  as  bro 
thers,  until  the  day  of  the  poet's  death. 

I  desire  as  much  as  possible  to  avoid  making  men 
tion  of  myself.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  thought  egotis 
tical,  or  take  to  myself  any  merit  at  the  expense  of 
him  who  can  no  longer  speak  for  himself.  But  as  I 
sit  alone,  late  at  night,  with  the  impressions  of  the  poet 
before  me,  I  turn  my  eyes  inward,  and  awake  to  the 
impressions  engraved  there.  I  feel  the  bitterest  drop 
of  the  fountain  of  sorrow,  not  for  myself,  only,  but  for 
him  who  sleeps  to  wake  no  more. 

Men  may  talk  of  heroism,  of  battles  fought  and 
won.  The  scenes  and  sufferings  of  woman  which  we 
daily  witness,  would  shake  the  courage  and  prostrate 
the  energies  of  a  thousand  Napoleons.  She  cannot 
clothe  herself  in  armour,  or  rush  in  battle  ;  her  panoply 


SUMMER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  35 

is  meekness,  patience,  forbearance,  perseverance,  love: 
the  last  of  which  will  enable  her  to  sustain  poverty, 
oppression,  imposition,  hunger,  thirst,  and  all  the  com 
plicated  evils  to  which,  alone,  and  without  remedy,  poor 
woman  is  subject. 

As  the  young  mother  turns  to  her  infant,  and  forgets 
in  its  smiles  her  sorrows,  so  did  I  find  elysium  amid 
all  my  trials,  in  the  love  I  felt  for  my  first  sweet  child. 
Oh  !  how  perfect  is  that  hope  with  which  the  mother  in 
her  moments  of  despondency  looks  forth  to  the  period 
when  her  child  will  sympathize  in  all  the  trials  she 
has  endured  and  known.  This  event,  which  gave  new 
impulse  to  my  feelings,  created  little  or  no  change  in 
the  mind  of  my  husband.  In  his  extreme  anguish  he 
would  admit  of  no  palliative ;  he  converted  his  sor 
rows  into  extreme  wo.  He  could  be  severe  on  others, 
but  if  the  same  severity  was  exercised  toward  him,  he 
felt  it  too  keenly  to  bear.  He  could  not  laugh  over 
his  ill-fortunes.  Ah  !  could  he  have  done  this — differ 
ent,  how  different,  would  have  been  his  fate,  and  the 
fate  of  his  children  ! 

The  poem  he  had  published  was  reviewed  by  the 
editors,  many  of  whom  were  his  enemies,  who  spoke 
favourably  of  his  genius.  Upon  the  reception  of  the 
work  among  his  literary  admirers,  he  received  many 
letters  of  commendation  ;  a  few  of  which,  it  gives  me 
pleasure  to  subjoin.  . 

NEW  YORK,  March  12,  1828. 

DEAR  SIR  :  On  Monday  last  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
receiving  your  letter  dated  the  first  instant,  but 
post-marked  the  eighth.  The  volume  you  mention 
as  accompanying  it,  has  not  reached  me.  I  have 
called  at  the  post-office  for  it  several  times,  but  in 


36  THE  LIFE    OF 

vain  ;  and  have  delayed  writing  you,  in  the  hope  that 
it  would  be  brought  me  by  some  private  conveyance. 
Will  you  do  me  the  favour  to  inform  me  if  it  is  in 
town,  and  if  so,  to  whom  I  shall  apply  for  it  ? 

I  regret  that  you  do  not  yet  believe  in  the  propriety 
of  laughing  at  "  the  stings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  for 
tune,  the  oppressing  wrong"  etc.,  etc.  You  forget 
that  they  are  among  the  "  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to  " — 
a  sort  of  inheritance,  by  the  way,  truly  democratical 
in  its  laws  of  entailment,  and  not  confined  to  elder 
brothers. 

Yours,  very  truly, 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 

S.  L.  FAIRFIELD,  Esq. 

NEW  YORK,  April  20,  1828. 

DEAR  SIR  :  Please  forgive  my  negligence  in  not  wri 
ting  you  ere  this  in  answer  to  your  former  letter,  and 
sending  you  my  hearty  thanks  for  the  volume  of 
poems.  I  have  perused  the  most  of  them,  and  can 
truly  say  I  have  been  highly  delighted. 

The  "  Cities  of  the  Plain  "  is  a  sublime  composition 
— it  is  your  best.  All  that  is  beautiful  in  Homer  lies 
in  those  descriptions  that  are  grounded  on  probability ; 
in  the  delineation  of  character,  a  clear  perception  of 
moral  worth,  of  personal  beauty,  national  rights,  and 
national  traits  of  gove/nment,  history,  arts,  etc.,  etc., 
together  with  a  beautiful  description  of  the  natural 
scenery  of  the  earth*,  seas,  and  skies,  as  presented  to  the 
eye.  And  what  is  beautiful  in  the  Iliad,  is  also  beautiful 
in  the  "  Cities  of  the  Plain  " — is  the  life  and  soul  po 
etic  in  Burns,  and  the  pure  spirit  of  Byron. 

The  "  Sisters  of  Saint  Clara "  is  a  most  exquisite 


SOIXER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  37 

piece  ;  you  have  been  very  happy  in  this.  As  a  whole, 
it  pleases  me  better  than  the  "  Cities  of  the  Plain." 
With  great  delight,  I  have  several  times  strolled 
among  the  tombs  and  mighty  arches  in  "  Westminster 
Abbey."  You  have  really  made  me  love  to  wander 
there.  But  oh  !  I  would  that  the  names  of  tyrants 
and  wicked  impostors  were  blotted  out,  and  the  mau 
soleum  left  sacred  to  genius  and  virtue. 

"  To  Clara  f  is  a  charming  production.  It  possesses 
that  chaste  sentiment  and  pure  flow  of  a  noble  soul, 
to  which  every  heart  imbued  with  generous  and  hu 
mane  feelings  cannot  fail  to  respond. 

Truly  yours, 

JOHN  FRAZEE. 

TRENTON,  Nov.  22,  1828. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  I  hasten  to  acknowledge  the  re 
ceipt  of  a  volume  of  choice  poems  from  you,  and  re 
turn  you  my  most  hearty  thanks  for  the  distinguished 
favour  you  have  conferred  on  me,  in  the  dedication. 
If  ever  I  have  enjoyed  pure  intellectual  happiness  in 
the  world,  it  has  been  in  those  moments  when,  retiring 
from  the  cold  mockeries  of  heartless  intercourse  with 
business-doing  men,  I  have  surrounded  myself  with 
the  images  of  those  friends  of  my  bosom  whom  for 
tune  had  taken  away  from  me,  and  of  whom  only  the 
remembrance  was  left.  To  recall  their  images,  to  en- 
ioy  in  fancy  their  society,  and  to  believe  they  sometimes 
thought  of  me,  has  charmed  away  the  bitterness  of 
many  a  lonely  hour.  And  if  ever  I  received  an  evi 
dence,  high  and  indisputable,  that  I  had  a  friend  in 
deed,  it  is  the  evidence,  this  last  evidence,  I  have  re 
ceived  from  you.  But  still,  when  I  open  your  book 

4 


38  THE  LIFE    OP 

and  read  that  dedication,  clothed  as  it  is,  "  in  thoughts 
that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn,"  one  painful  emo 
tion  steals  to  my  heart — how  can  I  ever  requite  the 
favour — how  much  has  my  friend  mistaken  the  worth 
of  him  on  whom  his  obligations  are  conferred. 

You  know  not  the  worth  pf  the  favour  you  have 
bestowed.  Had  you  dedicated  your  book  to  wealth, 
all-powerful  gold  might  have  thrown  wide  open  to  its 
author  the  road  to  fame  ;  or  to  some  colossus  of  lite 
rature,  and  you  would  have  gained  a  scarcely  less 
powerful  ally.  But  no — your  gift  was  laid  on  the 
altar  of  friendship  ;  your  disinterested  nobility  of  soul 
sought  no  other — and  all  that  friendship  can  repay,  is 
this  humble  tribute  of  an  overflowing  heart.  I  thank 
you,  Fairfield,  and  God  is  my  witness  that  I  most  ear 
nestly  wish  your  sun  may  shine  brighter  and  brighter 
till  your  glory  is  full,  and  that  your  name  may  go  dowi 
to  posterity  with  that  of  Milton,  and  Cowper,  and  By 
ron  ;  and  if  you  rise  in  intellectual  power  from  year  t<> 
year,  as  you  have  risen  heretofore,  my  wish  will  be 
gratified. 

I  have  read  "  Mina,  etc."  several  times  already.  The 
dedication  is  admirable  prose,  and  the  dramatic  sketch 
as  admirable  poetry.  The  story  is  simple  and  grand, 
and  the  style  so  chaste  and  unaffected  that  I  think,  as 
a  whole,  it  is  quite  equal  to  the  "  Sisters  of  Saint 
Clara,"  though  I  have  heretofore  considered  it  as  your 
master-piece — and  it  certainly  contains  some  passa 
ges  of  surpassing  beauty.  I  could  wish  that  Mina 
had  shared  a  better  fate,  but  the  regret  that  it  awa 
kens,  only  proves  the  power  of  the  author  over  the 
mind  of  the  reader.  The  "  Invocation"  is  full  of  fine 
ideas.  I  never  read  anything  that  breathed  more 


SUMNER    LINCOLN    FAJRFIELD.  39 

sweetly  the  tones  of  melancholy  music,  than  the  lines 
oeginning 

"  But,  Holy  Spirit,  I  have  been  the  child 
Of  sorrow,"  etc. 

The  Sonnet  that  follows,  recalls  the  "  Childe"  of  By 
ron,  and  touches  the  same  strings  that  powerful  mas 
ter  of  the  passions  loved  to  touch.  The  Idealist  is  also 
beautiful. 

"  Oh !  how  I  love  that  solitary  trance, 
That  deep  upheaving  of  the  bosom's  seeu" 

That  last  line  is  worth  all  the  poetry  I  have  ever 
written,  and  I  would  rather  be  its  author,  than  the 
author  of  some  whole  volumes  of  poems  I  could  name. 
The  Evening  Star,  however,  is,  in  Mrs.  Potts5  opinion, 
one  of  the  very  best  in  the  book — and  I  will  not  quarrel 
with  this  authority  ;  I  like  it  very  much.  Of  The  Revo* 
lutionist,  and  the  Scripture  pieces  which  follow,  I  think 
the  general  remark,  that  they  sustain  the  character  of 
the  work,  is  due.  But  I  am  strongly  inclined  to  rank 
The  Son  of  Genius  first  in  the  book.  The  regular  meas 
ure  pleases  my  taste  better,  and  the*  steady  flow  of 
pure  thoughts  clothed  in  rich  language,  and  intermin 
gled  with  just  sentiments,  claims,  I  think,  the  first 
honor — it  is  all  equally  fine.  If  any  piece  disputes 
superiority  with  it,  it  is  the  Visions  of  Romance,  and  I 
confess  that  I  am  apt  to  give  preference  to  one  and 
the  other,  whichever  I  read  last.  The  lines  to  Luzelle 
— The  Lay  of  the  Colonist — The  Hour  of  Death,  and 
The  Dirge,  are  highly  poetic,  and  do  equal  honor  to 
the  head  and  heart  of  the  author.  The  Necropolis  dis 
plays  a  deep  train  of  thought ;  though  I  think  you 
rhyme  it  with  such  facility  that  it  often  exceeds  your 
verse  in  melody  and  power.  Consolation,  and 


40  THE  LIFE    OF 


the  Miami  Mounds,  are  sweet  poems ;  and  Rhigas  is 
one  of  the  sweetest  Greek  pieces  I  have  read ;  I  like 
it  better  than  Brooks's.  The  last  Sonnet  is  unexcep 
tionable.  Indeed,  this  volume — and  the  public  snail 
confirm  what  I  say — this  volume  will  carry  you  a  long 
journey  toward  the  temple  of  your  destiny.  See  if 
my  words  prove  not  prophetic. 

If  anything  will  ever  induce  me  to  publish  my  tales 
it  will  be  the  commendation  they  receive  from  men  of 
acknowledged  genius,  like  yourself;  (as  for  poetry,  1 
must  leave  that  field  to  you.)  If  ever  I  should  do  so, 
and  advantages  should  result  from  it,  I  should  look 
upon  it  as  new  debts  of  gratitude  due  to  you  for 
your  kind  introduction  of  them  to  the  public,  through 
the  medium  of  a  volume  which  bids  fair  to  be  as  pop 
ular  as  "  Mina,  etc. ; "  and,  poor  as  is  the  return  I  am 
now  able  to  make  for  your  goodness,  no  future  op 
portunity  to  make  a  better  will  be  neglected,  should 
one  occur. 

Accept  my  assurances  of  admiration  and  friendship, 
and  my  best  wishes  for  your  health  and  prosperity. 

Yours,  affectionately, 

STACY  G.  POTTS. 

SUMNER  LINCOLN  FATRFIELD,  Esq.,  Baltimore,  Md. 

TRENTON,  August  14,  1828. 

MY  DEAR  SIR  :  I  have  not  forgotten  you — I  never 
change  my  opinions  of  my  friends  for  trivial  causes. 
I  did  not  answer  your  note  of  last  month,  because  I 
did  not  know  where  to  direct  the  answer.  It  was 
dated  at  sea,  and,  though  post-marked  New  York,  I  sup 
posed  it  had  been  sent  in  by  a  pilot-boat.  I  watched 
the  papers  to  see  a  notice  of  your  arrival,  for  they 


SUMNER   LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  41 

used  to  tell  me  of  your  movements,  and  the  only  men 
tion  I  saw  of  your  name,  was  from  some  of  your  old 
enemies  at  Boston,  merely  saying  you  had  returned. 

I  should  then  have  \vritten  as  I  now  do,  promptly, 
had  I  discovered  your  resting-place,  to  say  that  it 
seems  to  me  one  of  the  strangest  things  in  the  world, 
that  you  should  have  thus  early  returned  from  Eng 
land,  where  all  the  papers  stated  you  were  on  the  high 
road  to  distinction.  What  evil  star,  my  friend,  con 
trols  your  destiny  ?  Do  you  believe  Milton  or  Byron 
could  have  lived  by  writing  poems  in  America? 
England  was  your  post ;  and,  in  the  dark  as  to  your 
reasons  though  I  am,  I  think  your  return  was  unwise — 
and  you  will,  I  fear,  think  so  too,  unless  you  have 
brought  with  you  a  less  unbending  spirit  than  you 
took  away. 

Since  you  have  been  in  Europe,  the  only  notice  I 
have  seen  of  you,  with  the  exception  of  a  letter  from 
London,  which  spoke  highly  of  your  prospects,  was 
an  angry  one  by  Mr.  Gamage.  I  expected  him  here, 
and  he  promised  in  a  note  to  call  upon  me  ;  if  he  had 
done  so,  I  intended  to  scold  him  soundly  for  it.  He  is 
in  New  York,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  have  any  fur 
ther  misunderstanding  with  him.  These  quarrels  among 
poets  are  very  wrong  ;  you  should  all  be  good  friends 
and  brothers,  and  praise  rather  than  cut  and  slash  one 
another. 

I  read  two  or  three  of  your  letters  from  London, 
and  intend  making  extracts  when  I  get  the  series  com 
plete. 

I  am  upon  the  eve  of  closing  my  literary  career,  if, 
indeed,  the  life  of  a  newspaper  editor  may  bear  that 

4* 


42  THE    LIFE    OF 


term ;  and  I  believe  it  is  rather  with  pleasure  than 
pain.  The  strife,  and  chicane,  and  turmoil  of  a  legal 
life,  commences  with  me  early  in  the  spring.  I  shall 
never  write  a  line  of  poetry,  I  hope,  after  I  get  my 
parchment.  -  This  kind  of  resolution  is  the  more  ne 
cessary,  as  the  country  has  more  good  lawyers  than 
good  poets — and  a  singleness  of  purpose,  a  devotion 
of  soul  and  body,  is  necessary  to  encounter  the  frown 
of  fortune,  and  turn  the  current  in  one's  favour.  So 
I  give  you  timely  notice  that  after  the  first  of  May, 
your  once  honoured  friend  will  know  no  more  about 
Apollo  and  the  sisterhood  than  the  marble  statue  of 
Burns,  which  you  may  have  seen  if  you  went  to  Edin- 
burg.  But,  Fairfield,  take  care  of  the  gentle  creatures 
— I  commend  them  entirely  to  your  keeping  ;  and  I 
assure  you  I  feel  a  fatherly  or  a  brotherly  care  for 
their  growth  and  welfare.  You  may  still  send  me 
a  song  sometimes,  over  the  mountains — and  I'll  give 
an  hour  of  pensive  sadness  to  the  "  days  lang  syne," 
at  least. 

But  enough  of  this.  We  are  journeying  through  a 
troublesome  world,  Fairfield,  and  I  hope  you  and  I 
won't  disagree  by  the  way.  I  know  you  will  think 
less  of  me  for  my  change  of  profession,  but  I  must  pay 
this  forfeit  to  all  my  old  literary  friends.  However, 
be  it  as  it  may,  let  us  all  enjoy  as  much  as  we  can  of 
friendship,  cherish  the  kindest  feelings  for  each  other's 
errors,  and  elbow  our  way  through  the  world  as 
well  as  we  can.  Don't  write  me  any  more  letters 
about  "  cutting  acquaintance,"  etc.,  or  let  any  notions 
of  neglect  creep  into  your  head.  I  shall  always  feel 
much  interest  in  your  welfare,  and  esteem  your  ac- 


SUMNER   LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  43 

quaintance  and  correspondence  an  honor — though  the 
press  of  business  now  before  me,  will  not  fail  to  make 
me  a  poor  correspondent. 

May  your  name  be  immortal  ! 

STACY  G.  POTTS. 

S.  L.  FAIRFIELD,  Esq. 


44  THE    LIFE    OF 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

FORTUNATELY  for  the  poet,  his  mind  could  react  upon 
pleasing  occasions.  The  letters  he  had  received  be 
spoke  the  admiring  sympathy  of  the  highest  and  the 
wisest.  He  loved  admiration  only  when  it  sprung 
from  the  most  profound  sources — not  the  vulgar  hom 
age  of  pedants — the  listless  praises  of  literary  idlers 
could  not  content  the  yearnings  of  his  ambition.  He 
was  too  proud  in  his  temper,  and  too  pure  in  his  am 
bition,  to  feel  his  vanity  elated  by  sharing  the  enthu 
siasm  with  the  literary  exclusives  of  his  day.  They 
even  began  to  run  down  his  works,  because  they  did 
not  fancy  the  author.  He  had  the  intelligent — the 
learned,  among  the  people  of  both  countries,  to  be  his 
audience  and  judges. 

As  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  enter  into  elaborate  des 
criptions  of  his  character,  I  must  pass  on  to  a  few  of 
the  principal  events  of  his  life. 

A  few  months  after  the  publication  of  his  last  work, 
he  ascertained  that  there  was  a  vacancy  in  the  New- 
town  Academy,  distant  from  Philadelphia  about  thirty 
miles.  He  busied  himself  at  once  in  obtaining  the 
necessary  credentials  for  this  situation.  Although  his 
friends  were  few,  they  were  warm  and  enthusiastic 
in  his  behalf.  Among  them  was  the  able  and  distin 
guished  advocate,  David  Paul  Brown,  Esq.  This  gen 
tleman,  though  he  pitied  his  infirmities,  and  mourned 


SUMMER   LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  45 

over  his  ill-fortunes,  admired  his  learning  and  genius, 
and  was  ever  ready  to  serve  him.  The  introductions 
that  were  given,  and  the  assurances  of  his  high  capa 
city  to  take  charge  of  the  academy,  were  sufficient  for 
the  trustees.  He  was  chosen,  and  took  immediate 
possession  of  this  institution. 

This  was  the  most  important  station  he  had  occu 
pied.  The  building  was  spacious,  and  built  for  the 
accommodation  of  its  preceptor  and  family.  It  stands 
upon  a  beautiful  eminence,  front  of  which  is  a  lawn, 
and  behind  a  large  garden.  The  village,  though  small, 
contains  persons  of  wealth  and  merit ;  the  society  of 
these,  it  was  our  good  fortune  for  a  brief  period  to 
enjoy.  Two  of  the  principal  men  that  were  connected 
with  the  academy  were  Dr.  Jenks  and  Dr.  Gordon  ; 
the  latter,  whose  wealth  was  sufficiently  ample  to  per 
mit  him  to  retire,  lived  in  a  charming  and  rural  spot, 
distant  a  mile  from  our  dwelling. 

To  this  beautiful  retreat  my  husband  and  myself 
delighted  frequently  to  wander.  The  doctor  and  his 
family  possessed  that  quiet  manner  and  bearing  which 
distinguishes  the  really  well-bred  from  the  coarse  and 
vulgar.  With  the  hospitality  and  kindness  of  this 
family,  he  seemed  once  more  consoled  ;  and,  so  far  as 
human  foresight  is  permitted  to  judge,  he  felt  certain 
that  he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  obtain  (if  not  opulence) 
an  independent  support. 

With  his  leisure  hours  he  cultivated  his  garden,  and 
planted  trees.  His  mind  became  calm — his  feelings 
more  tranquil  and  subdued  as  the  spring  returned, 
bringing  its  beauty  and  its  bloom  to  chase  away  the 
sadness  and  sickness  of  the  soul,  that,  through  seasons 
past,  it  had  been  ours  to  bear. 


46  THE    LIFE    OF 

Woes  once  borne  become  strange  pleasures  to  our 
memory  !  The  past  has  its  romance,  its  mellow  lights 
and  shades,  soothing  deep  sadness  like  the  brightest 
hope  that  bursts  upon  the  future.  He  amused  him 
self  with  the  creations  of  his  own  fancy  amid  the  pri 
vations  and  sufferings  occasioned  by  the  unmitigated 
malice  of  a  host  of  enemies.  He  sung  of  hopes  and 
fears,  of  loves  and  griefs,  to  find  some  counterpoise 
to  the  struggles  of  a  world  always  an  alien  (because 
never  understood)  to  his  poetical  mind. 

While  a  resident  at  Newtown,  he  composed  many 
pieces  that  are  truly  beautiful.  What  can  be  more 
exquisite  poetry  than  his  pieces  "  To  Clara  ?"  Clara 
was  his  early  love ;  and  if  we  are  to  judge  of  poetry 
by  the  effect  produced  on  the  feelings — if  it  be  to  glow, 
and  tremble  and  weep,  surely  this  is  poetry.  Of  his 
works,  which  have  been  so  often  printed  and  so  eagerly 
read,  it  is  unnecessary  to  say  much.  All  readers  of 
taste  and  sensibility  assign  him  a  place  among  the 
first  poets  of  his  country.  When  engaged  in  compo 
sition,  he  wrote  rapidly,  and  was  truly  happy ;  they 
were  his  only  blissful  hours — hours  of  high  thought 
and  silent  intercourse 

"  With  the  old  seers  and  sages.    When  the  soul 

Walked  solemnly  beside  departed  bards, 

And  lion-hearted  martyrs :  and  o'erveiled 
•  Forest,  and  hill,  and  vale,  and  rivulet, 

With  the  deep  glorious  majesty  of  mind." 

In  these  he  courted  the  muses,  and  in  these  he  found 
poetry  to  be  its  own  reward. 

In  the  quiet  of  village  life,  away  from  scenes  of  tur 
moil,  strife,  and  scandal,  that  he  had  endured  during 
his  short  stay  in  Philadelphia,  he  began  to  feel  new 


8UMXER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  47 

aspirations.  Sometimes  his  intellect  would  seem  be 
numbed  and  laid  asleep  ;  and  that  kind  of  praise  that 
he  felt  he  merited,  produced  an  extraordinary  reac 
tion,  from  which  his  whole  soul  seemed  visibly  aroused. 

While  thus  influenced,  he  would  revolve  in  his  mind 
the  subject  and  plot  for  some  new  and  laborious  work. 
There  was  no  end  to  the  creations  of  his  fancy  while 
these  moments  of  inspiration  lasted. 

Well  would  it  be  for  authors  if  they  could  hear 
praise  without  being  elated — and  ribaldry  without 
being  depressed.  The  first  is  often  bestowed  too  pre 
cipitately,  and  the  latter  is  so  faithless  to  its  purpose, 
that  it  is  often  the  index  to  merit  in  the  present  age. 


48  THE    LIFE    OF 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  poet  loved  antiquity,  not  merely,  however,  on 
account  of  its  antiquity,  but  because  it  deserves  to  be 
loved.  His  subjects  were  well  chosen,  and  always 
original.  Some  have  affected  a  dislike  to  his  writi  ngs, 
who  could  not  contend  with  him  openly.  As  a  schol 
ar,  he  was  profound — and  though  he  did  not  remain 
half  his  term  in  college,  he  continued  a  student  through, 
life.  Memory  was  a  predominant  quality  of  his  fine 
mind.  He  was  scrupulously  exact  in  his  language 
in  conversation  as  in  writing  ;  when  engaged  in  the 
former,  he  commanded  the  admiration  alike  of  the 
learned  and  the  illiterate.  Whatever  were  his  faults, 
(and  who  among  us  are  perfect?)  posterity  must  equally 
honour  and  revere  a  man  of  his  exalted  talents. 

I  think  it  is  Bulwer  who  says, "  Depend  upon  it,  that 
the  Almighty,  who  sums  up  all  the  good  and  all  the 
evil  done  by  his  creatures  in  a  just  balance,  will  not 
judge  the  august  benefactors  of  the  world  with  the 
same  severity  as  those  drones  of  society  who  have  no 
great  services  to  show  in  the  internal  ledger  as  a  setter- 
off  to  the  indulgences  of  their  small  vices." 

He  began  to  form  his  materials  for  a  work  he  had 
for  a  long  time  contemplated.  The  subject  was  one 
that  suited  his  genius ;  this  poem  is  entitled  "  The 
Last  Night  of  Pompeii."  It  was  the  grand  and  the 
ideal  which  appealed  to  his  imagination.  This  pecu- 


SUMNER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  49 

liar  quality  of  his  genius  remained  with  him  unim 
paired  from  his  youth  to  his  death. 

He  had  not  written  one  canto  of  this  poem  when  a 
most  melancholy  catastrophe  occurred  to  change  his 
fortunes  and  blight  his  prospects.  He  had  taken 
two  young  men  to  finish  their  education,  who  board 
ed  in  our  family — nephews  of  Dr.  Gordon,  whose 
parents  resided  in  Philadelphia.  The  eldest  brother* 
about  nineteen,  from  his  fine  mind  and  amiable  man 
ner,  won  himself  into  the  affections  of  his  preceptor. 
They  soon  became  companions  in  their  rambles,  and 
often  repaired  to  a  river,  distant  about  a  mile  from 
the  academy,  to  indulge  in  their  fondness  for  bathing. 

It  was  on  a  fatal  afternoon  in  the  month  of  July, 
they  set  out  in  unusual  spirits  to  the  river.  They  had 
not  been  in  long  when  young  Strawbridge,  (for  that 
was  his  name,)  was  seized  with  the  cramp,  and  be 
fore  assistance  could  be  obtained,  he  sank  and  per 
ished. 

With  much  difficulty  they  succeeded  to  get  my  hus 
band  to  shore.  In  the  fright  and  effort  he  made  to 
save  his  young  pupil,  he  came  near  losing  his  own 
life — he  was  carried  home  senseless. 

The  next  day  he  arose  to  struggle  with  the  weight 
of  sorrow  and  sadness  within,  and  the  gloom  and  des 
olation  of  all  things  without.  The  whole  village  was 
in  a  state  of  alarm  at  this  unexpected  event,  and  hun 
dreds  flew  to  recover  the  body  of  this  lamented  young 
man.  They  found  it  about  twelve  o'clock  the  same 
night,  and  conveyed  it  to  the  house  of  his  uncle  ;  from 
thence,  accompanied  by  a  train  of  broken-hearted  re 
latives,  they  bore  him  to  his  last  resting-place. 

5 


50  THE  LIFE    OF 


From  this  fatal  occurrence,  our  home  became  soli 
tary — the  bell  rang  no  more  the  hour  for  school ;  both 
parents  and  children  seemed  impressed  with  a  super 
stitious  fear.  The  school  was  broken  up,  and  the 
academy  deserted  ;  "  the  song  and  the  merry  laugh" 
had  ceased  in  our  dwelling.  Had  my  husband  await 
ed  passive  under  this  new  affliction  for  a  little  time, 
the  gloom  that  pervaded  his  own  mind,  and  the  minds 
of  the  people,  would  have  subsided.  He  could  not 
bear  the  aspect  that  told  of  trial  and  death. 

All  importunity  was  vain — he  insisted  once  more  on 
trying  his  fortunes  in  New  York. 

It  would  be  a  sickening  task  to  detail  at  length  the 
trials  and  sufferings  of  the  ill-starred  poet  and  his  fam 
ily  during  the  two  successive  years.  He  had  been  so 
familiar  with  grief  as  to  become  dull  to  every  enjoy 
ment  but  writing.  Sad  and  bitter  memories  were 
consuming  his  manhood ;  even  our  fire-side  enjoy 
ments,  that  usually  have  an  indescribable  charm,  were 
interrupted.  He  lamented  the  cause,  but  could  never 
remove  it.  His  mother,  who  felt  as  though  his  affec 
tions  should  be  exclusively  confined  to  her,  sought  ever 
to  sow  dissension,  instead  of  the  happiness  and  union 
of  us  both.  A  difference  of  tastes,  tempers,  and  opin 
ions,  led  us  often  into  opposite  paths. 

What  a  triumph  awaits  me  here,  if  I  were  dispo 
sed  to  be  vindictive  ;  how  poor  a  thing  is  retaliation 
— it  is  but  a  momentary  and  wretched  victory  to  those 
who  suffer  from  wrong  and  persecution. 

My  husband,  during  his  life,  often  appealed  to  me, 
if  I  survived  him,  to  defend  his  reputation.  The  fol 
lowing  little  poem  I  have  treasured,  and  will  now  add 


SO1NER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD  51 

as  corresponding  with  the  remarks  I  have  just  made. 
It  was  written  in  an  hour  of  deep  domestic  suffering. 

Oh  !  wilt  thou  weep  my  injured  name, 
And  bear  the  stain  that  name  must  bear, 

When  I  am  lost  to  love  and  fame — 
And  blotted  from  the  things  that  were  ? 

Wilt  thou  espouse  my  memory,  love, 

When  I  no  more  can  brand  the  base  ? 
And  true  in  thy  devotion  prove, 

'Mid  scorn'd  despair  and  shunn'd  disgrace  ? 

Speak  to  my  heart  while  thus  it  pants, 

While  thus  ii  yearns  o'er  future  hours, 
Ere,  dead  to  all  its  woes  and  wants, 

It  slumbers  in  oblivion's  bowers  1 

Oh  !  for  a  name  when  I  am  dead, 

To  live  till  Kfe  doth  cease  on  earth ; 
For  deeply  hath  my  bosom  bled 

Since  the  quick  peril  of  my  birth  i 

Turn  not  away  with  that  wrought  brow, 

As  I  had  craved  a  lawless  boon, 
But  let  thine  eyes  of  beauty  now 

Beam  like  sweet  stars  at  night's  still  noon ! 

And  tell  me  that  thy  smile  shall  be 

The  sun  of  fame's  undying  flowers, 
And  Life's  will  henceforth  be  to  me 

Far  happier,  brighter,  better  hours. 

The  affection  of  our  two  guileless  children — Angelo 
and  Genevieve — seemed  to  bring  back  to  him  the 
days  of  his  own  youth,  when  with  his  little  sister  the 
hours  sped  gayly.  Their  docile  and  generous  natures, 
their  beautiful  serenity  of  temper,  cheerful,  yet  never 
fitful  or  unquiet,  gladdened  him  with  its  insensible  con 
tagion.  He  was  an  affectionate  and  devoted  father  ; 
he  would  often  smile,  and  even  laugh,  when  romping 


52  THE    LIFE    OF 


with  his  children.  To  observe  him  at  such  times,  was 
like  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  some  happy  sky.  It 
was  their  innocence  of  experience,  their  moral  incapa 
bility  of  guile,  that  charmed  him,  and  drew  him  aside 
for  a  while  from  all  that  wearies  life.  "  It  is  these 
holy  ties,  and  not  the  mocking  ceremonial,  that  alone 
render  wedlock  the  seal  that  confirms  affection ;  with 
these,  domestic  retirement  will  not  soon  languish  into 
wearisome  monotony." 

Natures  like  his  feel  joy  even  yet  more  intensely 
than  sorrow.  During  the  year  that  had  already 
passed,  he  had  been  busy  in  writing  the  poem  he  be 
gan  at  the  time  of  the  mournful  event  at  Newtown. 
He  wrote  part  of  his  time  while  bolstered  up  in  bed ; 
for,  since  his  arrival  in  the  city,  he  had  been  suffering 
under  the  painful  effects  of  chills  and  fever.  Instead 
of  writing  for  fame,  he  began  to  feel  the  necessity  of 
writing  for  money.  It  was  a  cold  and  cheerless  win 
ter,  upon  the  completion  of  the  poem,  that  I  proposed 
a  journey  with  him  to  Boston  to  try  my  skill,  for  the 
first  time,  in  soliciting  subscribers  to  print  the  work. 
I  certainly  thought  it  an  undertaking,  for  I  knew  there 
was  but  one  way  to  succeed  in  such  enterprises ;  to 
visit  gentlemen  at  their  places  of  business,  without 
respect  to  wealth  or  persons.  We  accordingly  set  out, 
and  arrived  in  Boston  in  the  winter  of  1829. 

The  love  I  felt  for  my  children,  (these  real  objects}) 
gathered  the  scattered  rays  of  the  heart  into  a  focus, 
and  served  as  an  impetus  for  new  exertions ;  and, 
though  I  dreaded  the  publicity  and  roughness  without, 
I  knew  life  would  go  on  smoother  and  happier  at 
home. 

My  exertions  and  success  in  Boston  secured  to  my 


SUMNER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  53 

husband  the  means  for  the  publication  of  his  new 
poem.  He  returned  delighted  with  the  nobleness  and 
generosity  of  the  Bostonians.  They  are  a  good  peo 
ple,  though  a  people  of  notions ;  and,  when  they  like, 
there  are  none  that  can  excel  them  in  good  actions. 

On  our  return  to  New  York,  "  The  Last  Night  of 
Pompeii "  was  published.  This  production  he  thought 
his  best — it  cost  him  much  labour  and  research.  It 
was  written  two  years  in  advance  of  "  Bulwer's " 
novel  of  the  same  title,  and  copies  sent  him  to  Lon 
don  ;  and  no  doubt  served  this  beautiful  writer  in 
some  of  his  best  descriptions.  Be  that  as  it  may,  he 
had  given  good  evidence  of  talent  before  this,  and  no 
doubt  could  have  done  nearly  as  well  without  the 
poem. 

"  Many  subjects,"  it  is  well  said  by  Dr.  Johnson, 
"  fall  under  the  consideration  of  an  author,  which,  be 
ing  limited  by  nature,  can  admit  only  of  slight  and  ac 
cidental  diversities.  The  book  of  Nature  is  open  to 
all,  and  in  her  pages  there  are  no  new  readings.  All 
definitions  of  the  same  thing  must  be  nearly  the  same  ; 
and  descriptions  which  are  definitions  of  a  more  lax 
and  fanciful  kind,  must  always  have,  in  some  degree, 
that  resemblance  to  each  other  which  they  all  have  to 
their  object." 

To  the  world  I  must  leave  this  work  to  find  out  all 
its  sublime  and  beautiful  things,  and  pass  on  to  rapid 
changes,  which  brought  their  varying  hues  and  mel 
ancholy  termination. 

Alas  !  I  wish  I  could  draw  a  picture  of  repose.  Oh ! 
that  here  I  could  lift  the  curtain  upon  a  beautiful  per 
spective,  instead  of  the  dark  and  dismal  scenes,  where 
the  light  is  lost,  and  memory  can  no  longer  look  on  the 

5* 


54  THE    LIFE    OF 


form  of  hope.  How  is  the  bloom  faded  from  the  face 
of  existence — "  how  is  the  golden  bowl  broken  at  the 
cistern  !"  Ah  !  ye  days  of  youth  and  romance,  when 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  experience  ;  your  shadow 
only  returns  to  me — your  bloom  is  forever  faded,  and 
passed  away. 

The  poet  now  determined  to  try  his  fortune  in  the  es 
tablishment  of  a  periodical  magazine.  At  that  period, 
literature  of  this  description  was  rare  ;  there  were 
probably  not  more  than  three  periodicals  in  existence, 
at  that  time,  in  this  country. 

For  the  success  of  this  expensive  work,  he  thought 
it  best  to  visit  Washington,  to  obtain  at  the  begin 
ning  the  signatures  of  men  of  distinction.  For  this 
purpose,  he  left  home  in  the  spring  of  1830,  accom 
panied  by  our  little  son.  On  the  day  after  his  arrival, 
our  beloved  idol  was  prostrated  by  a  disease  which  in 
ten  days  terminated  life.  The  news  of  the  illness  of 
my  sweet  boy  came  just  in  time  for  me  to  reach 
Washington  a  few  hours  before  he  died.  Silently  and 
solemnly  we  bore  the  form  of  our  child  to  Philadel 
phia.  There,  through  the  moss-grown  gate,  in  the 
lonely  burial-ground  of  St.  Stephen's  church,  sleeps 
Angelo,  aged  four  years,  three  months,  and  ten  days. 
It  has  been  often  remarked  that  as  men  were  incapa 
ble  of  the  same  intense  love  for  their  offspring  as  wo 
men,  so  they  were  alike  incapable  of  the  same  degree 
of  suffering  at  their  loss.  This  may  be  so,  but  not  in 
this  case.  The  loss  of  our  son  created  a  fearful 
change  in  the  mind  of  my  husband,  and  for  a  time  it 
seemed  as  if  life  itself  had  almost  deserted  him. 
Years  seemed  at  once  to  add  themselves  to  his  brow. 


SUMNER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  55 

In  his  grief,  he  forgot  he  had  other  ties  remaining  that 
claimed  his  attention  and  energies. 

His  daily  visits  were  to  the  grave  of  his  lost  son. 
The  excess  of  grief  from  which  he  suffered,  produced 
the  opposite  effect  on  my  feelings.  The  very  fact  of 
his  giving  up  all  aims  and  pursuits,  evinced  in  my  mind 
the  greater  necessity  to  perform  the  duties  I  thought 
Providence  had  fitted  me  to  discharge.  Driven  to  the 
test  extremity — without  means  to  supply  our  daily 
wants,  I  determined  to  persevere,  and  establish  the 
periodical  for  which  my  husband  had  issued  his  pro 
posals.  Consequently,  I  set  about  my  daily  visits — set 
ting  apart  for  this  business  five  or  six  hours  of  each 
day.  Astonished  at  my  success,  and  feeling  more  en 
couraged,  his  mind  became  gradually  restored  to  its 
former  state  of  reflection. 

In  the  space  of  three  months,  the  accession  of  means 
from  subscribers  obtained,  were  sufficient  to  enable 
him  to  commence  the  publication  of"  The  North  Amer 
ican  Magazine. 

From  the  death  of  our  son,  it  will  be  remembered 
that  we  fixed  our  residence  in  Philadelphia.  There  be 
ing  no  original  periodical  literature  at  that  time  in 
the  city,  the  disposition  of  the  people  favoured  a  work 
of  that  sort.  For  Jive  consecutive  years  he  was  the  ed 
itor  and  proprietor  of  the  work  in  Philadelphia.  It 
was  not  to  that  city  alone  we  were  indebted  for  pat 
ronage  to  print  a  work  so  expensive.  Our  journeys 
extended  far  and  near.  There  seemed  to  kindle  a 
spirit  of  emulation  among  all  to  whom  I  applied  for 
patronage  ;  and  the  desire  manifested  by  all  persons 
to  serve  me  in  this  arduous  and  painful  undertaking, 
rendered  it  a  pleasure  and  satisfaction. 


56  THE  LIFE    OF 


It  is  easy  to  conceive  the  change  that  took  place 
for  a  time  in  the  fortunes  of  the  poet.  He  now  had 
the  lash  in  his  own  hands.  Although  he  had  many 
friends  among  the  editors,  there  were  many  who  wan 
tonly  attacked  him.  Upon  these  he  did  not  fail  to  ex 
ercise  his  epigramatical  faculties.  As  he  was  pro 
gressively  prosperous,  his  mind  became  strengthened 
— the  gay  faces  of  people  with  whom  business  led  him 
to  converse,  created  for  a  time  a  happy  change  ;  and 
were  it  not  that  the  child  to  whom  genius  is  allotted  can 
not  long  endure  the  same  scene,  his  course  might  from 
this  period  have  been  one  of  serenity  and  composure. 

As  I  am  describing  some  of  the  principal  events, 
not  the  minute  details  of  the  life  of  my  husband,  I  pass 
over  five  years — the  only  period  in  his  career  that  was 
calm,  practical,  and  quiet.  At  thirty-five  years  of  age, 
he  began  to  feel  the  littleness  of  all  things,  the 
vanity  of  ambition,  and  the  folly  of  fame.  He  had 
been  always  looking  for  something  too  refined  and  ex 
alted  for  human  life,  and  every  new  proof  of  un wor 
thiness  in  men,  saddened  or  revolted  a  mind  that  ex 
pected  perfection,  where,  from  the  combinations  of 
human  passions,  he  should  have  looked  for  frailty. 

It  is  a  fearful  crisis  when  the  heart'  palls  and  sick 
ens  at  everything.  When  this  is  the  case,  inquiries 
are  made  by  the  common  observer  into  the  cause. 
The  world  cannot  comprehend  the  drudgeries  and 
toils,  the  wearying  fatigues  of  literature,  with  all  its 
small  enmities,  its  meagre  and  capricious  rewards. 

It  is  not  time  that  robs  us  of  the  zest  for  life  ;  it  is 
experience  and  disappointment. 

For  five  years,  with  our  united  efforts,  he  had  been 
barely  able  to  pay  his  expenses.  The  means  requisite 


SUMXER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  57 

to  sustain  the  magazine  amounted  yearly  to  the  sum 
of  three  thousand  dollars.  This  amount,  together  with 
travelling  expenses  and  the  means  of  living,  required 
on  my  part  much  labour  and  energy.  The  publicity 
to  which,  during  a  long  period,  I  was  necessarily  ex 
posed,  was  a  source  of  trial  to  my  husband,  which, 
with  his  sensitive  mind,  he  could  no  longer  bear.  He 
became  wearied  with  the  out-door  labour,  and  dis 
gusted  with  the  miserable  recompense  which  years  of 
thought  and  toil  had  earned  ;  for,  after  all,  it  is  more 
the  hope  of  ultimate  competence  than  the  love  of 
glory  that  awakens  the  indolent  mind,  and  strengthens 
the  feeling  heart,  amidst  midnight  studies  of  every 
age.  Did  famished  Otway  look  into  futurity  for  fame, 
or  around  him  for  bread,  when  he  was  writing  the 
"Venice  Preserved,"  during  his  last  three  days  of 
famine  ?  What  tortured  the  burdened  soul  of  Chatter- 
ton  ? — The  want  of  gold.  What  roused  the  burdened 
spirit  of  Goldsmith,  in  the  darkness  of  his  prison-house, 
to  compose  the  inimitable  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ?" — 
The  hope  of  release.  Great  minds  have  struggled  on 
through  all  the  evils  of  poverty,  persecution  and 
scorn — but  that  which  they  philosophically  endured, 
they  did  not  idly  praise.  They  felt  that  whatever 
might  be  the  inherent  or  attendant  vices  of  opulence 
and  luxury,  poverty  and  privation  were  a  terror  and 
a  judgment. 

The  acquisition  of  riches  to  men  of  genius,  is  general 
ly  supposed  to  operate  in  repressing  its  growth.  Alas  ! 
the  calm  sunshine  of  even-tide  has  been  seldom  known 
to  shed  its  genial  influences  upon  the  lives  of  celebra 
ted  men. 

The  poet,  weighed  down  by  care  and  labour,  sold 


58  THE  LIFE    OF 


his  magazine  in  1838,  to  James  C.  Brooks,  Esq.,  of 
Baltimore.  The  work,  I  believe,  ceased  its  existence 
in  less  than  six  months  afterwards.  From  this  fatal 
period  commenced  the  decline  of  the  poor  poet :  his 
spirits  began  to  sink  without  any  specific  cause,  and 
he  seemed  to  hasten  a  career  which,  during  his  whole 
life,  he  most  feared  and  dreaded.  He  began  to  bo  re 
gardless  of  everything  around,  as  his  irregular  habits 
grew  upon  him.  It  was  not  long  before  his  constitu 
tion  began  to  suffer  from  severe  attacks  of  epilepsy. 
The  exposure  and  suffering  to  which  he  became 
inured  brought  on  a  complication  of  diseases  which 
lasted  during  life. 

For  the  last  five  years  of  his  life  he  was  unable  to 
make  any  exertion  whatever  for  the  support  of  his 
family,  which  consisted  of  five  young  children.  Re 
duced  to  poverty  and  suffering,  how  did  my  heart 
yearn  over  these  innocent  ties  !  Our  household  effects, 
together  with  a  fine  library  of  historic  and  literary 
books,  he  had  been  for  years  gathering,  were  all,  like 
our  hopes,  scattered  to  the  winds,  and  the  home  that 
had  been  made  cheerful  by  the  combined  efforts  of  us 
both,  was  now  desolate  and  forsaken. 

As  a  last  resource,  by  the  kind  assistance  of  friends 
in  my  native  country,  and  in  the  British  provinces  of 
America,  I  was  enabled  to  undertake  the  publication 
of  my  husband's  poetical  works. 

How  often  have  I  seen  him  in  the  midst  of  distress, 
in  his  hours  of  reflection,  with  his  feeling  heart  sunk 
under  the  consciousness  of  suffering  he  had  brought 
on  himself  and  family  !  The  last  year  of  his  life,  his 
anxiety  for  his  children  hung  heavy  upon  him.  Dur 
ing  that  time,  and  the  two  preceding  years,  I  was  ab- 


SUMNER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  59 

sent — part  of  the  time  in  Europe,  and  the  remaining 
time  in  the  West  Indies.  During  the  last  few  days 
previous  to  his  decease,  he  frequently  expressed  a 
wish  to  see  both  myself  and  his  eldest  daughter.  His 
mind  at  times  was  wandering.  When  he  alluded  to 
his  approaching  dissolution,  his  heart  was  touched  with 
pure  and  unmingled  sorrow.  He  knew  the  event  was 
likely  to  happen  soon.  He  left  Philadelphia  in  the 
fall  of  1843,  with  his  mother,  and  arrived  in  New  Or 
leans  the  following  spring  of  1844.  Soon  after  his 
arrival,  he  accidentally  met  with  his  old  college  friend, 
George  D.  Prentice,  Esq.,  the  friend  of  all  friends, 
who  had  stood  by  him  in  seasons  of  adversity,  when 
all  others  had  forsaken  him.  Like  the  good  Samari 
tan,  he  was  ever  ready  to  administer  aid  and  conso 
lation  to  his  afflicted  brother.  This  unexpected  meet 
ing  gave  a  momentary  satisfaction  to  his  features, 
though  the  stamp  of  death  wras  impressed  on  his  coun 
tenance.  He  appeared  already  on  the  brink  of  eter 
nity.  He  ate  little,  and  seemed  entirely  to  have  lost 
the  tone  of  his  stomach.  He  often  spoke  of  his  children, 
and  manifested  great  solicitude  for  their  welfare.  He 
had  a  perfect  love  for  religion  ;  and,  though  he  despised 
cant  and  hypocrisy,  he  revered  the  true  and  sincere 
worship  of  the  heart.  Though  bred  a  Protestant,  he 
doubted  the  genuineness  of  all  creeds  except  the  Cath 
olic.  This  church  he  believed  to  be  the  church  of 
Christ,  founded  by  him  and  his  apostles. 

He  had  walked  about  until  the  day  of  his  death  ; 
he  continued  in  prayer  the  greater  part  of  the  night 
previous.  On  the  day  following,  he  went  into  an  adja 
cent  room,  and  returned.  In  making  the  effort  to  get 
into  bed,  he  fell  on  his  face,  with  a  slight  tremor  of 


THE    LIFE    OF 


his  wasted  form,  and  in  a  moment  the  vital  spark 
fled.  In  New  Orleans,  on  the  sixth  of  March,  1844,  in 
the  forty-first  year  of  his  age,  the  sufferings  of  this 
ill-fated  genius  were  terminated,  and  a  life  closed 
which  had  been  embittered  by  want,  suffering,  and 
persecution. 

His  death  excited  a  sad  and  mournful  sensation  in 
New  Orleans,  and  throughout  the  country.  His  re 
mains  lie  interred  in  the  "  Cypress-Grove  Cemetery," 
about  three  miles  distant  from  the  city.  There,  far 
from  the  objects  of  his  love,  his  home,  and  friends, 
his  ashes  repose  among  strangers,  unnoticed  and  un 
known — without  a  slab  or  stone  to  direct  the  lovers 
of  his  muse  to  the  narrow  house  of  the  poor  bard. 
Surely  a  tribute  is  due  to  his  memory,  whose  talents 
for  ages  to  come  will  do  honour  to  the  American 
name.  Let  it  not  be  said  that  SUMNER  LINCOLN  FAIR- 
FIELD,  the  Poet,  has  no  grave ! 

The  following  pathetic  and  beautiful  poem,  by  my 
husband,  was  addressed  to  me  a  few  days  before  he 
died,  and  was  the  last  breathings  of  his  poetic  spirit 
before  it  took  its  flight. 

Dove  of  the  Deluge  !  wearied  are  thy  wings, 

Winnowing  the  void  air  on  thy  flight  with  me  ; 
Yet  every  sunbow  o'er  thy  beauty  flings 

The  heart's  bloom,  born  of  God's  infinity. 
Lone,  faint,  o'ercast  by  huddled  worlds  of  gloom, 

Wronged  by  the  heartless,  wrecked  in  reach  of  bliss, 
O'er  life's  Sahara,  on  to  unknown  tomb, 

Alone  I  wander — hopeless  but  for  this — 
This  beauty  of  the  blossom,  breathing  heaven 

O'er  earth's  dark,  withering  woes — o'er  tempest  Time- 
Stumbling  on  Doubt's  wild  mountains !  yet  'tis  given 

Despair  to  know  Love  makes  its  own  sweet  clime, 


SUMNER    LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD.  61 

O'er  crashing  wreck  and  smouldering  ruin  flies, 

Its  cherub  pinions  flashing  glory  back, 
The  holy  smile  of  Eden  in  its  eyes, 

And  angel  hosts  triumphing  in  its  track. 

Oh  !  but  for  this — for  thee — divinest  child 

Of  sorrowing,  sinning  Earth !  Time  had  not  now 
Hurled  howling  tempests  o'er  my  spirit  wild, 

And  left  its  lightnings  on  my  blasted  brow. 
Supremest  GOOD  bequeathed  thee  to  impart, 

E'en  to  dim  Earth,  the  blooming  light  of  Love, 
And,  though  the  footsteps  falter,  still  the  heart 

Seeks  thee,  its  ark,  lone  wandering  deluge  dove  ! 

Through  fleckered  clouds  the  molten  moonlight  streams, 

As  o'er  my  spirit  floats  thy  smile  of  youth  ; 
Visions  of  Arcady  and  Argolic  dreams 

Wear,  to  my  yearning  gaze,  the  garb  of  Truth ; 
And  all  that  Nature,  through  its  myriad  spheres, 

Could  frame,  in  thy  sweet  bosom  hath  its  home, 
Yet  o'er  the  Past  swirls  a  dark  sea  of  tears, 

And  sighing  Sorrow  dims  the  days  to  come. 

What  but  blest  knowledge  of  thy  sweetest  spirit 

Hath  Time  vouchsafed  through  all  its  years  of  woe  ? 
What  its  sad.eras  given  me  to  inherit  ? 

Bereavement,  want,  and  malady,  that  grow 
By  needing  nutriment ;  'mid  vivid  flame 

Doomed  e'er  to  dwell,  yet  destined  ne'er  to  die, 
The  martyr  mind,  through  lingering  years  the  same, 

Still  from  the  burning  bush  glares  on  the  blackened  sky, 
And  finds  no  fellowship  in  any  world  ; 

Or  avalanche,  or  earthquake,  maelstrom,  ocean, 
In  the  dread  wrath  of  Ruin — each  hath  hurl'd 

Its  maniac  vengeance,  'mid  the  mad  commotion 
Of  anarch  Wo — Time's  tyrant  reigns  alone  ! 

With  giant  strides,  he  treads  the  voiceless  waste  ; 
Without  a  smile,  mounts  empire's  gory  throne ; 

Onward  looks  hopeless — darkly  on  the  Past ! 

6 


62  THE    LIFE    OF   SUMNER   LINCOLN    FAIRFIELD. 

Bride  of  my  bosom !  though  denied  on  earth, 

Blend  thy  blest  spirit  with  my  saddened  thought, 
And  breathe  the  blessing  of  love's  holiest  birth 

Around  life's  pathways ;  what  deep  skill  hath  wrought, 
Refine  thou  and  exalt ;  be  with  me,  Love  ! 

In  trial,  toil,  temptation — guide  and  guard 
My  erring  steps — and  oh  !  my  prophet  dove ! 

Hail  to  heaven's  shore  thine  own  lamenting  bard ! 


THE 


SISTERS   OF  SAINT  CLARA 


A  TALE  OF  PORTUGAL. 


BY  SUAINER  LINCOLN  FAIRFIELD. 


THE 


SISTERS  OF  SAINT  CLARA, 


A  TALE  OF  PORTUGAL. 


CANTO   I. 

I. 

'Tis  the  bridal  of  nature,  the  season  of  spring, 
When  Pleasure  flits  round  on  her  diamond  wing, 
And  the  spirit  plays  brightly  and  softly  and  free, 
Like  gem-dropping  beams  on  a  boundless  blue  sea, 
And  the  young  heart  is  lit  by  the  beams  of  love's  eye, 
Like  an  altar  of  perfume  by  fires  of  the  sky. 
'Tis  the  heart-blooming  season  of  innocent  love, 
When  the  green  growing  mead  and  the  whispering 

grove, 

And  the  musical  stream,  as  it  purls  o'er  the  dale, 
And  the  flowers  whose  lips  zephyr  woos  in  the  vale, 
Are  seen  with  the  spirit  of  thrilling  delight 
As  visions  of  beauty  too  passingly  bright, 
And  heard  like  the  songs  that  come  o'er  us  in  dreams 
When  the  soul's  magic  light  through  infinity  gleams. 
The  gay  Earth  is  vestured  with  verdure  and  flowers, 
And  hope  sings  away  the  sweet  sunny  hours, 
While  bathing  in  sunbeams,  or  over  the  sky 
Her  star-pinions  waving  through  glories  on  high. 

6* 


66  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

The  citron  groves  throw  on  the  wings  of  the  breeze 
Their  balm-breathing  flowers,  and  the  green  orar  ge 

trees 

Harp  sweetly  in  airs  from  the  hill  and  the  sea, 
Like  lyres  heard  unseen  singing  joys  yet  to  be. 
O  Eden  of  beauty  !  Lusitania  !  the  sun 
Loves  to  linger  a  while,  when  his  journey  is  done, 
On  the  lofty  twin  Pillars,  whose  brows  in  the  sky 
Gleam  bright  when  the  sun-god  rides  flashingly  by, 
Which  stand  in  their  might  'mid  the  waves  of  the  sea — 
Abyla  and  Calpe — unconquered  and  free. 
And  Cintra's  dark  forests  look  smilingly  on 
Apollo  descending  from  his  chariot  throne, 
While  Estrella's  lagoon,  green  Escura  receives 
Sheen  tints  of  his  rays  from  the  wood's  gilded  leaves, 
And  Tajo's  broad  bay  like  a  mirror  reposes 
Tween  a  heaven  of  light  and  a  garden  of  roses. 

ii. 

The  sun's  last  beam  of  purple  light 
Blazons  proud  Calpe's  castle  height, 
ftid  over  Lusitania's  sea 
Looks  with  a  smile  of  melody. 
The  volcaii  fires  of  ^Etna  glow, 
Brighter  as  sinks  Hyperion  low, 
And,  'mid  the  gathering  twilight  high 
Stromboli  flames  against  the  sky, 
O'er  dark-blue  ocean's  billowy  foam, 
To  light  the  wandering  sailor  home. 
Child  of  the  sun,  the  dusky  Moor 
Watches  the  horizon,  bright  obscure, 
And,  while  the  proud  muezzin  calls 
Devotion's  hour  from  Ceuta's  walls, 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA.  67 

Throws  his  keen  eye's  far-searching  glance 

O'er  the  dark  billows  as  they  dance 

Along  the  Mauritanian  shore, 

And  listens  to  their  surging  roar 

Around  Abyla's  basemeftit  deep, 

Lest  in  tired  nature's  twilight  sleep 

The  foe  upon  his  guard  should  steal, 

And  gain  the  pass  ere  trumpet  peal. 

Adverse,  the  gallant  Briton's  eye, 

From  Calpe's  height  gleams  o'er  the  sky, 

And  marks  with  all  a  sailor's  pride 

The  vast  sail  gleaming  o'er  the  tide, 

While  every  breeze  that  comes  from  far 

Wafts  music  from  red  Trafalgar. 

Evening's  dim  shadow  o'er  the  close, 

Fair  Lusitania  !  and  the  rose 

Of  morning  blushes  o'er  thy  plains 

With  the  same  rich  and  gorgeous  light 

As  when  his  warlike,  wild  Alains, 

O'er  forest,  flood,  and  vale,  and  height, 

From  Volga's  banks  Respedial  led 

To  Tajo's  darkly  wooded  shore, 

Though  where  they  warr'd  or  why  they  bled 

None  know  or  name  forevermore. 

And  the  sun  rolls  his  last  faint  beam 

O'er  princely  dome,  rose-margined  stream, 

And  almond  grove  and  jasmine  bower, 

With  the  same  smile  as  when  the  earth 

Blushed  in  the  beauty  of  her  birth. 

in. 

The  full-orbed  moon  is  'gleaming  bright 
On  Cintra's  dark  and  rocky  height, 


68  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

And  on  verandah,  turret,  tower, 
Palace  and  fane  at  this  still  hour 
Glows  with  a  radiant  smile  of  love, 
And  gilds  the  music-breathing  grove 
With  those  pure  beams  of  light  serene, 
Which  sanctify  the  peaceful  scene. 
From  wave  and  dome  and  field  and  grove 
Rise  the  soft  notes  of  pleading  love, 
And  many  a  strain  is  heard  from  far 
Of  wandering  lover's  sweet  guitar, 
And  in  the  songs  he  fondly  sings 
His  glowing  heart  finds  rainbow  wings, 
Which  bear  his  spirit's  powers  afar 
Unto  his  being's  guiding  star. 
Dian — the  queen  of  sighs  and  tears, 
Her  richest  robe  of  beauty  wears, 
And  smiles  to  hear  the  vows  that  rise 
Beyond  her  empire  in  the  skies, 
While  still  she  weeps,  in  prescient  pain, 
That  passioned  love  is  worse  than  vain. 

IV. 

St.  Clara's  dark  and  massy  pile, 

Where  sunbeams  fall  but  never  smile, 

'Mid  the  dense  cypress  grove  uprears 

Its  ivied  turrets,  gray  with  years, 

And,  where  the  shadowy  moonlight  falls, 

Uplifts  its  blackened  prison  walls, 

Within  whose  solitary  cells 

Tearless  despair  forever  dwells, 

And  sin,  beneath  devotion's  name, 

Reposes  in  its  sacred  shame, 

While  deeds  'twould  sear  the  tongue  to  tell 

Are  done  in  murder's  fatal  cell. 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA.  69 

Within  St.  Clara's  cloistered  gloom, 

A  living  grave,  a  vital  tomb, 

Two  lovely  vestals,  young  and  fair, 

In  misery  dwelt  and  dark  despair. 

Their  loves  and  hopes  and  feelings  chained, 

Lone  sorrow  o'er  their  being  reigned, 

'Till  hope  arose  upon  their  eye, 

And  love's  ecstatic  witchery 

Woke  the  fond  hearts  that  had  been  crushed, 

And  the  soul's  sunlight  current  gushed. 

Like  roses  budding  on  one  stem 

Or  blending  hues  of  opal  gem, 

Lonely  they  sat  within  their  cell, 

Silent  till  expectation's  swell 

Burst  o'er  each  thought  and  feeling  high, 

Like  sunshowers  from  the  azure  sky. 

Round  them  the  full  heart's  stilness  hung, 

'Till  Zulma's  glowing  feelings  sprung 

To  words  that  flowed  like  morning's  beam, 

Or  song  from  lips  of  seraphim. 

"  Sweet  Inez  !  fast  the  fearful  hour 

"  When  we  shall  spurn  monastic  power, 

"  Doth  hasten,  and  our  spirits'  might 

"  Must  dare  the  ordeal  of  to-night. 

"  The  church's  power,  or  father's  ire, 

"  And  Heaven  perchance,  will  all  conspire 

"  To  cloud  young  love's  ascending  sun  ; 

"  Then,  Inez,  'til  the  deed  is  done, 

"  And  we  have  passed  their  power's  extent, 

"  Let  not  thy  dove-like  heart  relent 

"  Nor  fancy  picture  punishment." 

"  Oh,  lovely  Zulma  !  hope  is  light 

"  Within  my  trembling  heart  to-night, 


70  THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT   CLARA. 

"  And  fain  this  bosom  yet  would  prove 

"  The  silent  joys  of  blissful  love. 

"  But,  ah  !  my  path  in  life  hath  been 

"  So  full  of  grief,  and  every  scene 

"  Of  joy  so  soon  hath  changed  to  woe, 

"  Life's  common  bliss  I  ne'er  shall  know 

"  Till  my  lone  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat 

"  Within  the  snow-white  winding-sheet." 

On  her  pale  cheek  and  blanching  brow 

Hope's  feverish  hectic  ceased  to  glow 

And  o'er  her  bosom  came  the  blight, 

The  darkness  of  perpetual  night, 

The  gloom  of  days  that  long  had  vanished, 

And  thoughts,  that  never  could  be  banished. 

v. 

Zulma's  high  spirit  at  the  view 

Of  peril  more  undaunted  grew, 

And  glowed  'mid  sorrow's  gathering  gloom 

Like  angel  faith  above  the  tomb. 

In  danger's  hour  she  stood  alone, 

'Mid  fearful  things  the  fearless  one, 

And,  as  her  sunlight  spirit  burned 

O'er  the  deep  darkness  of  despair, 

The  trembling  fears  of  all  she  turned 

To  hopes,  and  left  them  smiling  there. 

Her  broad  high  brow  the  throne  of  thought, 

And  features  into  spirit  wrought ; 

Her  star-beam  eye  and  face  of  light, 

And  moulded  form  that  chained  the  sight, 

And  swan-like  neck,  and  raven  hair, 

And  swelling  bosom,  richly  fair, 

Which  rose  and  sunk,  like  moonlight  seas, 

In  its  deep  passion's  ecstacies, 


THE    SISTERS    OI    SAINT    CLARA.  71 

As  if  her  mighty  heart  were  swelling 
In  sun- waves  for  its  heavenly  dwelling  ; 
All  spake  a  spirit  proud  and  high, 
A  wandering  seraph  of  the  sky, 
And  such  was  ZULMA  ;  sorrow's  night 
Might  its  dark  shadows  o'er  her  cast, 
But  the  deep  gloom  her  spirit's  light 
Changed  into  rose-beams  as  it  past ; 
She  had  one  aim,  and  none  beside 
Could  bend  her  lofty  lightning  pride, 
And,  ere  she  drooped,  she  would  have  died. 
Vemeira  knew  his  daughter  well, 
And  chained  her  spirit  in  a  cell 
Ere  she  could  know  the  desolate 
And  hopeless  woe  of  such  a  fate, 
And  'twas  to  bless  an  elder  child 
He  crushed  that  soul,  so  proud  and  wild. 

VI. 

Timid  and  fearful  as  the  fawn, 
That  searches  ere  it  treads  the  glade, 
Yet  lovely  as  a  spring-time  dawn 
In  robes  of  rosy  light  arrayed ; 
Warm,  feeling,  soft  and  delicate 
As  the  last  blush  of  summer  eve, 
Yet  trembling  at  the  frown  of  Fate, 
Lest,  while  her  heart  did  sadly  grieve, 
Sin  should  assume  the  garb  of  woe, 
And  shroud  in  gloom  devotion's  glow ; 
INEZ,  though  fair  as  forms  that  rove 
Round  Fancy's  fondest  dream  of  love, 
Was  tender,  gentle,  fragile,  frail, 
And  shrinking  as  the  violet  pale 
Which  blooms  in  solitary  vale, 


72  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

By  zephyr  fanned  and  breathed  alone, 
Unseen,  unsought,  unprized,  unknown. 
Feelings  suppressed  and  thoughts  untold 
Flowed  silently,  like  molten  gold, 
O'er  her  fond  heart,  while  virtue's  sun 
Threw  glory  o'er  them  as  they  run. 
Her  smiles  and  tears  alike  were  born 
In  purity  of  virgin  love, 
And,  like  bright  Eos,  child  of  morn, 
She  drank  at  streams  that  gush  above : 
For  sweetness  such  to  her  was  given, 
Her  faintest  prayer  was  heard  in  heaven. 

VII. 

When  Zulma  heard  her  sister's  plaint, 

And  saw  her  gentle  spirit  sink, 

Her  soul  arose  in  power — "  To  faint 

"  While  standing  on  dark  ruin's  brink 

"  Were  madness  worse  than  mirth  in  death 

"  When  love  and  bliss  our  flight  await 

"  To  quail,  to  droop  despair  beneath 

"  Were  folly  that  deserved  the  fate." 

"  But  if  we  fail "— "  It  cannot  be  ! 

"  Love,  like  the  mountain  breeze,  is  free, 

"  And,  amid  peril,  wrong  and  ill, 

"  Strong  as  the  gale  that  sweeps  the  hill, 

"  Or  severing  ocean  in  its  might, 

"  Brings  long  lost  treasures  into  light." 

"  But  will  beholding  heaven  approve 

"  Our  broken  vows  for  earthly  love  ?" 

"  St.  Mary  shrive  thee  !  would'st  thou  be 

"  A  vestal  in  hypocrisy  ? 

"  Oh,  gentle  Inez,  guard  thy  love  ! 

"  Count  Dion's  daring  quest  would  prove 


THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT    CLARA.  73 

41  But  folly's  dream  in  evil  hour, 

"  If  thou  dost  spurn  the  boy-god's  power." 

Inez  arose,  her  blue  eye  flowed 

In  gushing  tears  of  pearly  light — 

"  Zulma  !  my  heart  were  ill-bestowed 

"  If  Dion  called  me  false  to-night." 

"  Vemeira's  daughter  still ! — O  Heaven ! 

"  Love's  messenger  his  call  hath  given  I 

"  Inez  !  that  rose,  by  Dion  thrown, 

"  Lay  on  thy  heart — it  is  thine  own — 

"  And  haste  thee,  for  we  must  be  gone  !" 

The  soft  strain  of  a  sweet  guitar 

Now  mellowed  came  as  if  from  far, 

But,  skillful  in  its  measured  fall, 

It  rose  by  dark  St.  Clara's  wall, 

And,  mastered  by  Prince  Julian's  hand, 

Its  sweet  notes  flowed  so  richly  bland, 

They  told  unseen  the  minstrel  lover, 

And  Zulma's  soaring  spirit  over 

Threw  breathless  rapture  as  she  fled 

From  her  lone  cell  with  footstep  light, 

While  Inez'  heart,  at  every  tread, 

Spake  like  deep  voices  of  the  night. 

VIII. 

Queen  of  the  skies  !  why  should  the  beams 
Of  thy  soft  eye  so  richly  glow 
O'er  scenes  that  darkest  gloom  beseems, 
As  fitting  their  soul-harrowing  woe  ? 
Why  should  thy  smile  alike  illume 
Despair  and  Hope,  and  Love  and  Hate, 
The  bridal  mansion  and  the  tomb, 
Hearts  full  of  bliss  and  desolate  ? 

7 


74  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

Empress  of  Heaven  !  oh,  thou  wert  made 
For  blooming  hearts  and  tearless  eyes, 
To  light  the  spirit's  serenade, 
And  high-soul'd  love's  fond  ecstacies ; 
And,  when  young  Time  in  Eden's  bowers 
Wore  radiant  crowns  of  fragrant  flowers, 
While  innocence  with  him  would  rove 
In  soothing  shade  of  fair-leaved  grove, 
And  love  was  bliss  and  truth  its  own 
Blest  guerdon  in  the  morning's  sight, 
When  angels  looked  from  Glory's  throne 
And  threw  around  her  robes  of  light ; 
Ere  woe  was  born  of  sin,  and  crime 
Blotted  from  man's  corrupted  heart 
The  fairest  name  that  youthful  Time 
Had  written  there  with  magic  art ; 
Ere  the  sad  hour  man's  father  fell, 
And  o'er  his  fall  rose  shouts  from  hell, 
Thou,  sky-throned  Isis  !  from  above, 
Saw'st  nought  but  pure  unconscious  love 
Beneath  the  azure  sky — whose  sun 
Smiled  on  each  deed  by  mortals  done. 
Alas  !  thou  now  art  doomed  to  gaze 
Upon  a  world  so  dark  and  fell, 
That  thy  most  pure  and  lovely  rays 
Reveal  man's  heart  a  living  hell ! 

IX. 

On  the  young  vestals'  desperate  flight 
Thou  didst  look  down  with  smile  as  gay 
As  it  had  been  their  bridal  night, 
And  they  were  led  in  fair  array 
O'er  bright  saloons  and  marbled  halls ; 
And  on  ST.  CLARA'S  prison  walls 


M 

" 


THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT    CLARA.  75 

Thy  gleaming  radiance  shone  as  fair 

As  if  delight  were  smiling  there  ; 

And  on  the  lovely  INEZ'  eye 

As  she  and  Zulma  fled  in  fear, 

Thy  rays  were  thrown  from  yon  blue  sky, 

Unconscious  that  they  lit  a  tear. 

Crossing  the  cypressed  cemetry, 

They  hurried  on  with  unheard  tread 

'Till  they  had  gained  the  boundary 

Of  the  lone  empire  of  the  Dead, 

When,  ere  the  signal  could  be  given 

To  those  who  watched  beyond  the  wall, 

Inez  stretched  forth  her  hands  to  Heaven, 

Weeping  as  if  the  hour  when  all 

Her  hopes  should  die  had  come  and  spread 

Its  pall  o'er  life — and  thus  she  said ; — 

"  Now,  ere  we  part,  sweet  Zulma,  say 

"  Thou  lov'st  me  as  in  childhood's  day, 

"  When  we  together  fondly  strayed 

"  Through  arboured  groves  and  green- wood  shade, 

"  Plucked  roses  on  the  mead  to  crown 

"  The  hours  we  loved  to  call  our  own, 

"  And  felt  that  heaven  looked  smiling  down, 

"  When  none  beneath  the  laughing  sky 

"  Were  half  so  gay  as  thou  and  I. 

"  Tell  me  the  bloom  -of  life's  young  flowers 

"  Still  lingers  round  thy  changeless  heart, 

"And  that  the  joy  of  happier  hours 

"  Will  never  from  thy  soul  depart !" 

Now  ere  we  part !  a  strange  prelude, 
"  Fair  sister  !  to  the  heart's  high  bliss ; 
"  Thy  very  spirit  is  imbued 
u  With  doubts  and  fears — away  with  this  ! 


70  THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT    CLARA. 

"  Thou  art  MY  sister  !  droop  not  now, 

"  Remember  thine  and  Dion's  vow  ! 

"  They  hear  our  rustling  in  the  shade — 

"  Here  is  the  cord-wove  escalade — 

"  Now,  INEZ,  fearless  follow  me, 

"  Doubt  not,  we  must  and  shall  be  free." 

Unfaltering  ZULMA  scaled  the  height, 

Cheering  the  lovely  nun  to  speed, 

And  then  flew  down  with  footstep  light 

To  JULIAN'S  arms,  most  blest  indeed, 

The  solitary  vestal  stood 

A  moment  ere  she  dared  to  climb, 

And  in  that  moment's  solitude 

Her  stolen  flight  appeared  like  crime ; 

She  was  so  pure,  so  lovely,  sin 

Tinged  not  a  thought  her  soul  within. 

But  Dion  hung  upon  the  height, 

And  step  by  step  she  climbed  above, 

Her  hand  was  stretched,  in  wild  delight, 

To  grasp  that  of  her  only  love, 

When  fancied  guilt  and  dark  despair 

Came  o'er  her  as  she  lingered  there, 

And  her  brain  reeled  in  dizziness  ; 

She  heeded  not  the  cries  below, 

She  could  not  see  nor  hear  nor  know 

The  insupportable  distress 

Of  those  who  saw  her  form  on  high, 

Delirium  in  her  swimming  eye  ! 

One  last  shrill  shriek  of  wild  affright, 

The  falling  form  that  met  his  sight, 

The  hollow  groan,  that  rose  and  fell 

Upon  his  heart  like  ruin's  knell, 

Told  him  his  loves,  joys,  hopes  had  fled, 

And  INEZ  destined  to  the  dead. 


THE    SISTERS   OF   SAINT   CLARA.  77 

X. 

"  Away — away  !  Prince  Julian,  fly  ! 
"  The  alarum  bell  is  pealing  high, 
"  And  ruthless  hordes  of  vestal  fiends 
"  Are  rushing  hither  P — Who  ascends 
Again  that  dreadful  wall,  so  late 
Scaled  with  a  look  that  smiled  at  Fate  ? 
Tis  Zulma — "  Julian  !  leave  me  now, 
"  For  I  must  share  the  death  I  wrought, 
"  And  consummate  my  vestal  vow 
"  In  pain  and  darkness  as  I  ought." 
She  rose  to  give  her  purpose  deed, 
When  Dion  barred  her  path  and  cried — 
"  Prince  Julian  !  as  thou  would'st  in  need, 
"  And  when  despair  hath  humbled  pride, 
"  Crave  mercy  of  the  Power  on  high, 
"  Seize  Zulma  quick,  and  fly,  fly,  fly  P 
In  passion  wild  and  wildered  fear 
The  Prince  obeyed  the  wise  behest, 
And  grasped  the  heroic  maiden  ere 
Her  deed  had  left  him  thrice  unblest, 
And,  ere  a  moment  more  jiad  flown, 
The  high-soul'd  nun  and  Prince  had  gone. 
Count  Dion  watched  till  they  had  fled, 
Then  sprung  below  among  the  dead, 
Where  headstones  gleamed  to  mock  the  gloom, 
The  desolation  of  the  tomb. 
Gently  he  raised  the  unconscious  nun, 
And  laid  her  bleeding  on  his  breast, 
Thus — even  thus,  a  blessed  one 
To  pillow  such  a  form  to  rest ; 
While,  as  he  gazed  in  speechless  woe 
On  her  soft,  lovely  features  graven 

7* 


78  THE    SISTERS    OP   SAINT   CLARA. 

With  death's  dark  lines,  he  saw  below 

Nor  love  nor  joy,  nor  hope  in  heaven. 

But  scarce  the  space  of  lightning's  glare 

Was  left  to  muse  of  his  despair, 

Or  soothe  the  suffering  Inez  there, 

The  cloister  horde  by  Clotilde  led, 

Exulting  that  their  holy  hate 

Could  now  be  poured  on  beauty's  head 

And  virtue's  bosom  desolate, 

Rushed  like  hyena  troops  upon 

The  gallant  Dion — but,  appalled 

By  his  proud  port,  though  all  alone 

He  stood — they  paused  and  shrilly  called 

The  faggot  priest,  their  alguazil, 

To  guard  the  holy  cloister's  weal. 

Folding  his  bosom's  dying  bride 

With  one  strong  arm  unto  his  breast, 

And  with  the  other  waving  wide 

Iberia's  sword  that  many  a  crest 

Had  cloven  in  the  deadly  fray, 

He  bade  the  throng  yield  ample  way, 

And  sprung  upon  the  ladder's  height ; 

Then  came  the  alguazil,  the  light 

Of  hell  was  in  his  scowling  eye, 

Dashing  the  trembling  host  aside 

Like  war-ship  rushing  in  its  pride. 

The  lover  there  that  moment  stood, 

Not  like  a  warrior  trained  in  blood, 

But  like  that  Spirit  who  on  high 

His  four-edged  sword  flashed  o'er  the  sky, 

And  bade  the  sinning  mortal  die. 

"  Yield  thee,  blasphemer  !  Heaven  commands. 

"  Chain,  then,  the  bold  blasphemer's  hands, 


THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT    CLARA.  79 

"  And  bind  his  madden'd  spirit  down 

"  Low  as  thy  master's  and  thine  own." 

"  Barest  thou  the  monarch's  alguazil  ?" 

"  Bid  ye  the  whelp-robbed  lion  kneel  !" 

"  Dark  ruffian  !  thou  wilt  rue  this  hour." 

"  Ruffian  ! — not  while  my  sword  hath  power." 

And  with  the  word  the  unfailing  blade 

Low  at  his  feet  the  opposer  laid, 

And  Dion  seized  the  escalade. 

He  springs  with  more  than  mortal  might, 

He  rises — almost  gains  the  height — 

His  hand  is  on  the  moss-grown  wall — 

This  moment  saves  or  ruins  all ! 

A  word,  a  thought,  a  look,  a  dream 

May  ratify  the  doom  of  years  ; 

One  glance,  one  quick  electric  gleam 

May  lead  unto  an  age  of  fears ! 

Oh  !  Dion,  nerve  thy  heart  again, 

One  minute — spring — and  thou  art  free, 

O  think — thy  love — 'tis  vain — 'tis  vain, 

Despair  hath  sealed  thy  destiny  ! 

They  tear  away  the  cord- wove  frame, 

And  thou  art  doomed  to  woe  and  shame  ! 

Still  Dion  bears  the  double  weight 

With  one  torn,  bleeding,  numbing  hand 

Awhile — he  falls — the  scroll  of  Fate 

Hath  rolled  its  darkest  record  !  "  Stand, 

"  Exulting  demons,  stand  ye  there, 

"  And  o'er  all  earth  your  triumph  yell, 

"  And  laugh  o'er  death  and  life's  despair, 

"  For  than  ye  worse  reign  not  in  hell !" 


80  THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT    CLARA. 

XI. 

'Tis  joy  to  gaze,  from  the  tall  ship  s  lee, 
On  the  curling  waves  of  the  moonlight  sea, 
When  the  mellow  airs  of  spring-time  night 
Come  over  the  heart  as  it  floats  in  light, 
And  the  sleeping  flowers  exhale  perfume, 
Like  a  virgin's  breath  from  lips  of  bloom, 
And  the  dark-blue  waters  curl  and  gleam 
In  the  diamond  star-light's  mirrored  beam, 
While  the  spirit  burns  o'er  the  glittering  sea 
'Till  it  longs  a  moonlight  wave  to  be. 
Oh,  spirits  that  sail  on  the  moonlight  sea 
Should  have  thoughts  as  vast  as  eternity, 
And  feelings  as  pure  as  the  sleeping  rose, 
When  its  leaves  in  the  dew  of  the  sunset  close. 

XII. 

O'er  Lusitania's  soft-blue  moonlight  bay 
Swells  the  gay  song  of  reckless  gondolier, 
While  his  bark  dances,  as  the  waters  play, 
On  the  shore  waves  that  glitter  bright  and  clear. 

Dim  in  the  distance,  marked  upon  the  sky, 
Wave  the  blue  pennon  and  the  glimmering  sail, 
And  oft  is  heard  the  master's  anxious  cry 
While  shoreward  sea-boy  answers  to  his  hail 

Yet,  save  his  song  and  their  expectant  cries, 
The  world  is  slumbering  in  a  soft  repose, 
And  spirits  from  their  star-thrones  in  the  skies 
Breathe  softly  as  a  dew-lipped  sleeping  rose. 

It  is  the  hour  when  love's  communion  fills 
Eye,  lip  and  heart  with  rapture's  magic  light ; 
When  waning  Dian,  throned  on  shadowy  hills, 
Smiles  o'er  young  transports  from  her  azure  height 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA.  81 

Pomegranate,  orange,  lime  and  citron  groves 
Shadow  gray  turrets  and  time-honoured  towers, 
And  heaven's  pale  queen  amid  their  arbours  roves, 
And  counts  with  tears  the  melancholy  hours. 

But  hushed  is  song  of  happy  gondolier, 
And  fast  the  shadowy  sail  ascends  on  high  ; — 
A  step,  a  form,  a  voice — "  Prince  Julian's  here  !" 
"  Alfonso,  haste  !  this  hour  we  'scape  or  die  P* 

XIII. 

Before  the  rising,  shrill-voiced  gale 
Flies  the  yard-stretching,  mighty  sail, 
Swelling  o'er  broad  Atlantic  billow, 
Like  swan  upon  her  wavy  pillow, 
Dashing  aside  from  her  high  prow 
The  wave,  whose  hissing  foam-wreaths  glow 
Like  jewels  thrown  in  floating  snow, 
And  hurrying  on  her  watery  way, 
Between  two  oceans,  heaven  and  earth's, 
Like  war-horse  through  the  battle  fray, 
Whose  mighty  heart  would  burst  his  girths 
In  its  high  swelling,  should  his  lord 
Or  check  his  speed  or  sheathe  his  sword. 
With  a  long  sigh,  as  if  from  dream 
Of  pain  and  anguish  slowly  waking, 
From  Julian's  breast,  with  sudden  scream 
Wild  as  her  bleeding  heart  were  breaking, 
Zulma  rose  and  gazed  around 
On  ocean's  sons,  on  wave  and  sky, 
And  then  fell  back  and  deeply  groaned, 
While  gleamed  through  tears  her  eagle  eye. 
"  Inez  !  sweet  Inez  !"  Shudderings  came 
Over  her  like  the  sansar's  breath, 


82  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

As  from  her  heart  flowed  that  sweet  name 

Which  now  was  linked  with  woe  and  death, 

And,  wrapt  in  silent  suffering, 

She  saw  nor  wave  nor  sky  nor  lover, 

Nor  heard  the  light-winged  breezes  sing, 

Like  nymphs  in  sea-shells,  ocean  over ; 

All — all  to  her  was  pain  and  gloom, 

Her  thoughts  of  what  she  left  behind, 

And  o'er  her  angel  sister's  tomb 

She  heard  the  lonely  wailing  wind, 

With  spirit  voice  of  wild  distress, 

Denouncing  Inez'  murderess ! 

Darkly  with  phantoms  of  her  brain 

Communing,  o'er  the  billowy  main 

Zulma  was  hurried  rapidly, 

And  the  low  murmuring  of  the  sea 

Seemed,  when  she  heard  the  gulfing  surge, 

Hymning  the  murdered  vestal's  dirge. 

XIV. 

The  virgin  huntress  of  the  skies 

With  Ocean's  daughters  flies  afar, 

And  Eos  and  her  nymphs  arise 

Above  the  sun-gad's  throne,  each  star, 

Orion's  blazing  sword  of  light, 

And  the  twin-martyrs'  glory  bright, 

And  sea-born  Beauty's  radiance  dimming, 

While  blue-zoned  Tethys  weaves  a  crown 

Of  pearls  and  corals  brightly  swimming 

Through  her  vast  empire  fathoms  down, 

To  deck  Aurora's  rosy  brow 

As  her  white  steeds  o'er  ether  fly, 

And  proud  Hyperion,  bright  and  slow,  " 

Rolls  unto  heaven  his  glorious  eye. 


THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT    CLARA.  83 

The  bird  of  Jove  his  mighty  wings 
Waves  o'er  the  crimson  vault  above, 
And  from  his  eye  a  radiance  flings 
Bright  as  the  brightest  glance  of  love 
The  white-plumed  sea-gull  skims  the  sea, 
The  curlew  sports  around  the  bark, 
And  nature  sings  of  liberty 
And  love  as  when  from  ancient  ark 
The  beasts  of  earth  and  birds  of  heaven 

To  their  bright  fields  and  skies  were  given. 

• 

xv.  . 

The  rushing  ship  is  sailing  now 
O'er  the  bright  wave  of  Trafalgar, 
And  morn  is  blushing  o'er  the  brow 
Of  Algarve's  dusky  mountains  far, 
With  the  same  smile  of  living  bloom 
As  when  to  ocean's  billowy  tomb, 
Amid  the  sea-fray's  carnage  red, 
Their  requiem  shouts  of  victory, 
Shrouded  in  glory,  England's  Dead 
Sunk  with  unclosed,  war-lightened  eye, 
Whose  last,  bright  glance  from  gory  wave 
Saw  England's  banner  proudly  streaming 
Victorious  o'er  their  ocean  grave, 
And  England's  sword  triumphal  gleaming  ; 
And  o'er  his  sons,  with  every  surge, 
Bright,  billowy  ocean  sings  their  dirge. 
And  now  the  swelling  sail  is  fanned 
By  zephyrs  o'er  that  narrow  sea, 
O'er  which  on  either  margin  stand 
Those  giant  mountain  twins  which  he, 
Alcmena's  son,  with  god-like  power, 
Severed  and  poured  the  sea  between, 


84  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

And  which,  since  that  rock-sundering  hour, 

The  deadliest  foes  have  ever  been. 

Thence  onward  holds  the  bark  her  way 

Through  the  blue  wave  in  fair  array, 

While  to  the  northern  view  arise 

The  Appenines  'neath  bending  skies, 

O'er  whose  snow-mantled  summits  erst 

The  Mauritanian  hero  led 

His  warlike  host,  by  fate  accursed, 

To  glory,  as  the  warrior  said, 

And  the  proud  spoils  of  mighty  Rome  ; 

In  that  soul-stirring  hour  of  pride, 

When  his  heart  rolled  in  glory's  tide, 

Having  dread  Cannae  in  his  view 

No  more  than  he  whom  Waterloo 

Doom'd  to  the  Rock-Isle's  living  tomb. 

Had  of  that  desolating  fray 

On  Lodi's  or  Marengo's  day. 

Before  the  view,  where  sun-beams  smile, 

Rises  that  rocky  mountain  isle, 

Where  he  was  born,  the  mighty  one, 

Whose  gory  course  of  fame  is  run  ; 

And  where,  perchance,  a  guiltless  boy, 

His  fellows'  chief,  his  mother's  joy, 

He  wandered  oft,  and  played,  and  smiled 

Amid  the  mountain's  shrubbery  wild, 

An  innocent  and  happy  child  ; 

Undreaming  of  his  pomp  and  power, 

His  crimes,  disgrace  and  exile  fate. 

Ah  !  few  can  tell  in  childhood's  hour 

What  thoughts  and  deeds  their  manhood  wait ; 

Or  who  will  bann  or  bless  the  name 

That  blazes  on  the  scroll  of  Fame. 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA.  83 

In  hinl  a  mighty  spirit  burned, 
But  with  a  fierce  volcano  glare ; 
Oh,  had  that  soaring  spirit  turned 
To  heaven  and  drank  in  glory  .there, 
Earth  would  have  bowed  in  rapture's  mood 
And  held  his  name  in  sanctitude. 
The  Man,  who  guides  a  nation's  way 
To  bloodless  glory,  o'er  his  name 
Throws  fairer  wreaths  of  light  than  they 
Who  deck  Earth's  highest  shrine  of  Fame. 
But  ah  !  he  fell,  and  with  him  died 
His  empire,  power,  and  pomp,  and  pride ; 
And  nought  remains  of  all  he  won — 
Quenched  is  Napoleon's  zenith  sun. 

Still  onward  fleet  the  ship  careers, 
Like  rapid  lapse  of  hurrying  years, 
While  fades  the  bright  foam  of  its  wake, 
Like  all  the  joys  we  give  or  take, 
And  bears,  with  sail  expanding  high, 
Its  course,  beneath  a  glorious  sky, 
Toward  soft  Campania's  fairy  land, 
Where  zephyrs  sport  with  breathings  bland 
O'er  ruins  erst  of  pride  and  fame, 
And  gorgeous  domes  of  deathless  shame. 
And,  'mid  the  night  that  robes  the  skies, 
Julian  directs  sad  Zulma's  view 
Where  ^Etna's  fiery  columns  rise 
In  desolation's  lurid  hue, 
Glaring  between  this  world  and  heaven, 
Like  fiends  to  whom  destruction's  given. 
The  baleful  light  is  flaring  o'er 
Trinacria's  vine-clad,  flowery  shore, 

8 


86  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

Where  Arethusa  once  gush'd  forth 
In  lucid  streams  for  bards  to  drink, 
And  Alpheus  'neath  the  sea  and  earth 
Met  his  fair  fountain  bride — the  brink 
Bloomed  like  a  garden  of  sweet  flowers, 
And,  near,  Ortygia's  sacred  grove 
Delayed  the  rosy-footed  hours 
Of  pure  delight  and  raptured  Love. 
A  weedy  marsh  now  stagnates  there, 
And  taints  the  thick  and  sluggish  air, 
As  all  man's  hopes  close  in  despair. 
The  lovers'  course  is  almost  done, 
The  lovers'  goal  is  nearly  won, 
And  how  hath  Zulma  borne  the  flight  ? 
Like  one  whose  brighest  day  was  night. 
Like  one  whose  heart  hath  caught  a  taint 
Of  crime,  though  fancied,  dark  and  deep  ; 
Whose  dread  remorse  doth  ever  paint 
Horrors,  and  ne'er  is  lulled  to  sleep, 
Since  o'er  a  spirit  proud  and  high 
It  reigns  with  three-fold  energy. 
Who  backward  looks  and  finds  despair, 
And  forward,  misery  bars  her  there  ; 
Who  hath  no  hope  on  earth  and  none 
Beneath  high  heaven's  offended  throne. 
•The  more  she  thinks,  the  darker  grows 
The  volume  of  her  sins  and  woes  ; 
No  change  comes  o'er  her  agony  ; 
Like  ^Etna's  fire,  it  burns  within, 
And,  dark'ning  o'er  the  spirit's  sky, 
Burns  ever  with  the  gathering  sin. 
It  was  not  madness  ;  o'er  her  brain 
Coherent  thoughts  ceased  not  to  flow  ; 


THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT    CLARA.  87 

But  'twas  that  dread,  oppressive  pain, 

That  mountain  weight  of  crushing  woe, 

Which  follows,  in  a  sinless  mind, 

A  deed  that  spirits  too  refined 

Brood  into  guilt — for  priestcraft  e'er 

Riots  in  human  woe  and  fear. 

Reason  was  worse  than  vain,  and  speech 

The  dreadful  mania  could  not  reach, 

That  o'er  her  burning  spirit  shed 

The  baneful  death-dew  of  despair, 

The  upas  of  a  bosom  dead 

To  all  of  beautiful  and  fair ; 

For  Zulma  sought  no  sympathy, 

No  comfort  faithless  as  'tis  free, 

But  leaned  upon  the  penal  rod 

And  bowed  her  burning  heart  to  GOD. 

XVI. 

The  barque  has  passed  the  Tyrrhine  sea 

And  anchored  in  the  glorious  bay 

Of  proud  and  base  Parthenope,*  • 

Where  perfumed  gales  with  sunlight  play 

O'er  antique  temple,  giant  tower, 

And  palace  proud,  whose  mirrored  dome, 

Like  a  bright  heaven,  o'er  many  a  tomb 

Of  many  a  mighty  one  laid  low 

Gleams  with  a  rich,  refulgent  glow, 

Like  Freedom  o'er  lost  Power. 

The  barque  is  moored — the  lovers  gone 

Beyond  the  once  fair  Lucrine  lake, 

Where  dark-browed  Ruin  reigns  alone 

O'er  Baiae  lost  in  marshy  brake, 

*  Neapolis,  or  Naples. 


03  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

And  all  the  fairy  gardens,  groves, 
Meadows  and  dales  erst  loved  so  well 
By  him*  (so  reckless  luxury  proves 
In  one  a  nation's  ruin  fell) 
Who  shunning  Glory's  shrine  when  he 
Had  gained  the  fane,  left  mighty  Rome 
The  victim  of  fierce  anarchy, 
Dreading  yet  hurrying  on  her  doom. 
Lucrine — the  haunt  of  mirth  is  gone, 
And  there  volcanoes  glare  alone  ! 
Baiee  hath  sunk  to  dust,  and  she, 
Earth's  mistress  stands,  like  ancestry, 
Scowling  o'er  sons  whose  highest  boast 
Had  been  their  fathers'  deepest  shame, 
To  pride,  to  truth,  to  glory  lost, 
To  honest  hearts  and  patriot  fame. 

XVII. 

Days,  weeks  and  months  have  been  and  gone, 

And  lovely  Zujma  dwells  alone 

In  solitary  castle  high 

Between  fair  earth  and  fairer  sky. 

Julian  had  been,  all  lovers  are, 

Had  knelt  and  sworn  his  deathless  love, 

And,  like  a  sky-throned,  radiant  star, 

Thrown  light  and  beauty  from  above ; 

He  had  been  all  that  being  is, 

Whom  kindoms  wait — I' dare  not  dwell 

On  man's  intent  to  offer  bliss 

To  one  who  had  for  him  farewell 

Bidden  all  thoughts  of  earth  and  heaven, 

And  sole  to  him  her  full  heart  given. 

*  Lucullus 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA.  89 


Prince  Julian  was  Campania's  heir, 

And  thus  decreed  his  royal  sire ; — 

"  Thou  wed'st  proud  Austria's  daughter  fair, 

"  Or  never  com'st  the  sceptre  nigher." 

Julian  was  proud  of  pomp  and  fame — > 

The  fair  nun  could  nor  trump  his  name 

Nor  plume  his  power — but  she  might  be 

The  unseen  queen  of  sovereignty, 

The  empress  of  his  private  hours — 

The  angel  of  his  palace  bowers. 

So  Julian  thought,  though  he  had  tried 

Her  honest  fame  by  speech  oblique 

And  look  lascivious,  when  his  pride 

And  birth  and  state  appeared  most  weak 

Before  wronged  Zulma's  Juno  eye, 

Whose  glance  spake  pride  and  purity. 

From  day  to  day  he  talked  of  love, 

While  Zulma  would  not  see  his  aim, 

Save  when  the  princely  sophist  strove 

To  prove  all  rites  a  needless  name ; 

Then  flashed  her  eye  and  glowed  her  brow, 

Like  sunbeams  o'er  the  mountain  snow. 

On  love  I  will  not  moralize  ; 

It  hath  more  wiles  and  snares  than  sighs ; 

Sooth  be  the  tale  and  fair  I  tell — 

His  deeds  are  man's  true  chronicle. 

XVIII. 

'Twas  soft  Campania's  evening  hour, 
And  earth  and  heaven  were  seas  of  light, 
And  Zulma  in  her  rose-wove  bower 
Sate  gazing  on  the  horizon  bright, 
Where  white  clouds  float  and  turn  to  gold 
In  many  a  bright  and  glorious  fold, 

8* 


90  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

And  fancy  pictures  angel  pinions 
Far  waving  o'er  those  high  dominions, 
'Till,  as  she  thought  of  pleasures  gone, 
And  Inez,  tortured,  dying,  dead, 
And  her  own  misery  there  alone, 
Her  hopes  destroyed,  her  true  loves  fled, 
Her  bleeding  heart  left  desolate, 
And  all  the  ills  and  woes  of  fate, 
She  seized  her  harp  and  mournfully 
Sung  of  those  joys  no  more  to  be. 

THE  BANKS  OF  ZEVERE. 

The  bright  sun  is  sinking  o'er  Italy's  sea, 

And  kissing  Campania's  fair  gardens  of  flowers, 

But,  oh,  his  smile  brings  no  pleasure  to  me, 

For  my  heart  ever  grieveth   o'er  childhood's   sweet 

hours  : 

Sweetly  gay  rise  the  notes  of  the  lover's  guitar, 
As  he  greets  his  heart's  bride  in  the  valley  cot  near, 
But,  ah,  all. my  songs  of  delight  are  afar, 
Like  a  spirit's  voice  heard  on  the  banks  of  Zevere. 

How  oft  have  I  sat  with  sweet  Inez  upon 

Those  rose-cushioned  banks  in  our  being's  gay  hours, 

And  fancied  delights  ever  new  to  be  won 

In  the  great  World  of  beauty  and  music  and  flowers  !. 

How  oft,  O  thou  dear  one  !  I  slumbered  with  thee 

In  our  moon-lighted  bower  in  the  spring  of  the  year,    . 

And  heard  the  birds  singing  on  our  apricot-tree 

When  we  woke  to  delight  on  the  banks  of  Zevere  ! 

How  often  when  nature  in  vain  bloomed  around 
I  turned  in  my  heart-stricken  sorrow  to  thee, 
And  in  vigil  and  penance  and  weariness  found 
Thy  sweet  love  a  solace  and  treasure  to  me  ! 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA.  91 

But,  alas !  thou  art  dead,  and  I  am  alone, 
Far  from  all  that  on  earth  or  in  heaven  were  dear ; 
Fare  thee  well,  lovely  Inez  !  dark  shadows  are  thrown 
O'er  our  bower  on  the  banks  of  the  lonely  Zevere. 

Julian  had  stood  beside  the  bower, 
And  heard,  unseen,  the  mournful  song, 
While  every  blushing,  dewy  flower 
Reproached  him  with  fair  Zulma's  wrong ; 
But  nature's  voice,  so  soft,  so  still, 
Fails  to  overrule  ambition's  pride, 
Or  with  atoning  sorrow  fill 
A  lordly  heart  unsanctified. 
Julian  drew  near  and  greeted  fair 
The  sad,  forsaken,  lovely  maid, 
And,  eloquent  in  praise  and  prayer, 
Rehearsing  all  he  oft  had  said, 
Implored  compliance  \vith  his  love, 
Acceptance  of  his  treasures — all — 
And  she  should  ever — ever  prove 
The  queen  of  banquet,  bower  and  hall, 
And  be  his  heart's  eternal  bride, 
His  life  his  sun,  his  hope,  his  heaven, 
And,  when  he  gained  his  throne  of  pride, 
His  royal  name  should  soon  be  given. 
But,  while  the  Prince  besought  "and  prayed, 
How  sat  and  looked  the  insulted  maid  ? 
Like  her  of  Enna's  rosy  vale 
When  wooed  by  him  of  Acheron  ; 
Her  marble  brow,  her  cheek  so  pale, 
Her  tearful  eye — all  brightly  shone 
With  pride  and  shame,  disdain  and  scorn, 
And  thus — "  Why  was  I  ever  born 


92  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

"  So  to  be  scoffed  at  ?"  quick  began 

The  nun,  while  fierce  her  hot  blood  ran, 

And  her  small  form,  dilating,  grew 

Like  towering  angel  on  the  view. 

"  Prince  Julian,  cease  !  I  charge  thee,  cease 

"  Are  these  thy  notes  of  love  and  peace  ? 

"  Art  thou  to  be  a  nation's  king  ? 

"  THOU  —  false,  deluding,  faithless  thing  ! 

"  The  thoughts  that  lightened  spirits  high 

"  In  the  old  days  of  chivalry, 

"  Throw  not  a  wandering  gleam  o'er  thee, 

"  Thou  craven  night  of  loselry  ! 

"  Vemeira  is  a  noble  name, 

"  And  it  can  never  be  that  fame 

"  Should  Zulma's  memory  link  with  shame. 

"  Shall  I  thy  leman  be  ?  O  no  ! 

"  Never  while  I  can  wield  a  blow, 

"  While  poison  drops  or  waters  flow. 

"  Rede  thou  a  woman's  spirit  well 

"  Ere  mock  her  thus  with  words  from  hell, 

"  And  know  that  virtue  is  her  heaven, 

"  To  things  like  thee,  oh,  never  given  ! 


"  O  Julian,  Julian  !  love  like  mine 

"  Is  quenchless,  deathless,  for  'tis  pure  ; 

*'  E'en  now  it  doth  around  thee  twine 

"  Fondly,  and  cannot  but  endure 

"  The  same  as  when  thine  eye  first  shone 

"  O'er  the  same  mirror  as  my  own. 

"  Hadst  thou  been  what  I  thought  thee  erst 

"  As  knightly  as  thou  wert  at  first, 

"  Though  doomed  to  groan  in  poverty, 

"  'Mid  malice,  misery,  wrong  and  ill, 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CfcARA.  93 

"  The  slave  of  fear — a  lord  to  me — 

"  I  would  have  loved — obeyed  thee  still,  ^ 

"  And,  with  unsorrowing  brow  and  eye, 

"  Forsaken  not  and  unforsaking, 

"  When  sleeping,  kissed  thy  miser}' 

"  Away,  and  sung  to  thee  when  waking. 

"  But  these  are  dreams  of  passion  yet 

"  Surviving  when  its  hope  hath  set ; 

"  Vain  mockeries  of  my  bosom's  sun, 

"  Quenched  ere  his  journey  hath  begun  ! 

"  I  leave  thee,  Julian  !  and  be  thou 

"  Thy  own  just  judge — no  worse  !  and  now — 

"  There  are  thy  gifts  !" — From  neck  of  snow 

Her  carcanet — and  then  her  zone 

Of  jewels  and  her  chains  and  rings 

She  loosed  and  threw,  disdainful,  down ; 

"  There,  Julian,  take  the  gilded  things, 

"  For  which  thou  thought'st  that  I  would  sell 

"  My  honour — and  now  fare  thee  well !" 

XIX. 

Bewildered,  lost  in  guilt  and  shame, 
And  torrent  passions  wildly  warring ; 
Defied,  despised  in  deed  and  name, 
Each  wild-fire  thought  another  marring ; 
Prince  Julian  stood  unmoving  where, 
In  all  the  grandeur  of  despair, 
Zulma,  like  empress  throned  in  power 
More  than  deserted  nun,  had  left 
Her  lover  in  that  sundering  hour 
When  her  proud  heart  of  hope  was  reft. 
Zulma  had  hurried  from  his  view — 
Her  form  of  love,  her  voice,  her  smile, 


94  THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT    CLARA. 

No  more  enchantment  o'er  him  threw — 
No  rnare  his  sorrows  could  beguile  ; 
She  had  been  his — and  now  was  not — . 
He  had  been  hers  in  grief  and  woe— 
Now  she  had  gone — to  be  forgot — 
And  he  was  left  alone  to — "  No  ! 
"  By  Heaven  !  it  cannot,  shall  not  be  i 
"  Crown,  sceptre,  kingdom — what  are  ye 
"  To  love  and  love's  true  paradise  ? 
"  The  earth  preferred  unto  the  skies  ! 
"  Ambrose  !"  "  My  lord  !"— "  Caparison 
"  The  fleetest  steed  in  all  my  stalls, 
"  And  bring  the  courser  here  anon — 
"  And  guard  thou  well  the  castle  walls  1 
"  I  will  the  maid  regain  or  die, 
"  For  Honour  is  man's  majesty  !" 
He  vaulted  on  his  gallant  steed, 
And  vanished  in  the  forest  dun, 
Then  rose  the  hill,  and  o'er  the  mead 
Rushed  'neath  the  last  beam  of  the  sun. 


THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT   CLARA.  95 


THE 


SISTERS  OF  SAINT  CLARA, 

CANTO   II. 

I. 

O  LAND  of  my  birth  !  thou  fair  world  of  the  West ! 
With  freedom  and  glory  and  happiness  blest ! 
Thou  nation  upspringing  from  forest  and  grove, 
Like  wisdom's  armed  queen  from  the  brain  of  high 

Jove !         • 
Though   thy  winds  are  the  coldest  the   North   ever 

blows, 
And  thy  mountains  the  drearest  when  covered  with 

snows ; 
Tho'  the  warm  fount  of  feeling  is  chilled  while  it 

gushes, 

And  pleasure's  stream  frozen  as  brightly  it  rushes  ; 
Tho'  thy  sons,  like  their  clime,  are  oft  chilling  and  rude 
And  rough  as  the  oak  in  their  own  mountain  wood  ; 
Yet  I  love  thee,  my  country  !  as  fondly  as  Tell 
Loved  the  Alpine  Republic  he  rescued  so  well. 
For  thy  yeomen  can  circle  the  winter-eve  hearth, 
Undreading  oppression,  and  talk  of  the  Earth, 
Whose  bosom  yields  nurture  to  father  and  son 
Leaving  hearts  pure  and  gay  when  the  glad  work  is 

done : 

While  the  paeans  they  shout  over  glories  by-gone 
Are  echoed  by  virtues  for  ever  their  own. 


96  THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT    CLARA. 

O  thou  home  of  the  rover  o'er  ocean's  rude  wave 
Asylum  of  sorrow  and  fort  of  the  brave  ! 
Advance  in  thy  glory  o'er  forest  and  sea, 
Unrivalled,  unconquered,  heroic  and  free  ! 
Though  the  rose  bloom  and  fade  in  its  holiday  hour, 
And  the  sun-god  is  palled  in  his  glory  of  power 
Tho'  winter's  cold  breath  blanch  the  blossoming  rose, 
Unlike  the  bright  clime  where  the  sky  ever  glows, 
Yet  thy  virtues  bend  not  to  each  soothing  breeze, 
Whose  syren  song  lures  through  the  soft  shading  trees 
Like  the  gay,  grovelling  sons  of  the  tropical  clime, 
Whose  skies  are  all  glory — whose  earth  is  all  crime- 
None  love  thee  so  well  as  thy  sons  far  away, 
None  bless  thee  more  oft  than  the  bard  of  this  lay. 

n.  • 

The  sunniest  rose  that  ever  blowed 
In  velvet  vale  of  soft  Cashmere  ; 
The  loveliest  light  that  ever  glowed 
O'er  heaven  in  spring-time  of  the  year, 
Ne'er  blushed  and  beamed  more  purely  bright 
Than  gentle  Inez'  sinless  heart 
Upon  that  dread  unholy  night 
When  doomed  with  all  it  loved  to  part. 
No  spirit,  gazing  from  above, 
With  eyes  impearled  in  pity's  tears, 
Cherished  more  heavenly  thoughts  of  love 
In  glory's  highest,  brightest  spheres, 
Than  that  pure  child  of  love  and  light, 
Dragged,  'neath  the  covert  of  the  night, 
To  the  dim  arch'd  refectory ; 
Where,  telling  fast  their  rosaries, 
And  lifting  many  a  saint-like  eye 
To  heaven  with  muttered  groans  and  sighs, 


THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT    CLARA.  97 

The  demon  conclave  met  to  doom 

To  living  grave,  to  breathing  tomb, 

The  apostate,  suffering,  dying  nun. 

The  word  hath  passed — the  deed  is  done  ! 

Ere  morn  gleams  through  the  pictured  glass 

Of  prison  cell,  or  o'er  the  wall 

Of  dark  St.  Clara  light  doth  pass, 

Dimly  and  thick  and  sickening,  all 

Of  that  dark  bigot  band,  save  one, 

Are  kneeling  at  the  tapered  shrine, 

Before  the  Omniscient's  holy  throne, 

Where  every  thought  should  be  divine, 

To  chant  their  impious  prayers  to  Him, 

In  whose  creation-searching  eye 

Not  even  the  heavenliest  seraphim 

\re  pure  in  their  great  piety ! 

Alas  !  that  Heaven's  most  blessed  boon, 

Religion,  breathing  peace  and  love, 

In  man's  polluted  heart  so  soon 

The  veriest  creed  of  hell  should  prove  ! 

m. 

Unseen,  unfelt,  unknown,  her  fate 
O'er  the  fair  vestal's  head  had  past, 
And  she  was  left  all  desolate — 
The  doom  was  sealed — the  die  was  cast— - 
Ere,  waking  from  her  dreadful  dream, 
She  faintly  said — "  I  heard  a  scream 
"  Of  death,  methought,  O  Dion  !  say 
"  Is  Zulma  safe  ?"  Then,  as  she  lay 
Leaning  against  the  dungeon  wall, 
She  turned — groaned — and  fell  back  again  ; 
"  Oh,  Dion  !  love  !  oh,  tell  me  all, 

9 


9S  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

"  Where — where  is  Zulma  ?" — Awful  pain 

Came  o'er  her  then  and  dimmed  the  eye 

Of  yesternight's  dread  memory, 

And  through  her  spirit's  drear  opaque 

She  could  not  look — she  could  not  take 

Perception  of  her  agony  ; 

She  knew  'twas  so — but  how  or  why 

It  baffled  her  delirious  brain 

To  tell ; — and  then  she  thought  again, 

And  more  distinct  her  memory  grew 

Of  what  had  passed — and  chill  the  dew 

Of  death  hung  on  her  writhen  brow, 

Where  love  still  shed  its  parting  glow, 

As  dim  she  caught  the  past  and  gone  ; 

Yet  she  could  not — the  dying  one, 

Think  why  she  thus  was  left  alone. 

She  spake  again,  but  faint  and  low — 

"  O  Dion  !  thou  hast  often  said 

"  Thy  love  could  master  every  woe, 

"  And  o'er  all  griefs  its  radiance  shed  ; 

"  It  cannot  be  that  thou  should'st  now 

"  Forsake  thy  love,  forget  thy  vow — 

"  Now,  when  I  feel — O  Dion,  come 

"  And  bear  me  hence — I  must  go  home  I* 

She  listened  then  for  some  faint  sound, 

And  strove  to  rise  and  look  around  ; 

But  all  was  midnight  gloom,  and  she 

Alone  there  in  her  agony. 

Still  memory  gathered  link  by  link — 

And  still  life's  current  quickly  bled — 

With  a  death-thirst  she  longed  to  drink 

What  flowed  around  her  dungeon  bed ; 

She  scooped  the  fluid  in  her  hand, 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAJNT    CLARA.  99 

And  bore  it  to  her  lips — 't  was  blood  ! 

And  then  her  spirit  lost  command 

'Mid  horror,  gloom,  and  solitude, 

While  thought,  no  words  of  man  can  tell, 

O'er  all  the  past  began  to  swell, 

And  well  she  saw  her  hopeless  doom, 

There  buried  in  eternal  gloom, 

Whence  shrillest  shriek  and  wildest  cry 

Could  never  reach  the  shuddering  sky. 

No  missal  there  nor  cross  had  she, 

O'er  which  to  breathe  her  parting  breath ; 

To  cheer  her  in  her  misery, 

And  change  to  bliss  the  pangs  of  death  ; 

For  they  had  banned  the  dying  nun 

And  barred  redeeming  penitence  ! 

Demons  !  their  hate  her  glory  won — 

Her  amulet  was  innocence  ! 

So  malice  works  its  own  reward, 

And  weakest  proves  when  most  on  guard, 

For  never  yet  hath  hatred  wrought 

The  deadly  ruin  which  it  sought, 

Untended  by  a  deadlier  blow 

Than  that  which  laid  its  victim  low. 

rv. 

A  sound  disturbed  her  solitude — 
High  chanting  from  the  chapelry  ; 
Like  wailings  from  a  gloomy  wood 
When  echoed  by  a  stormy  sky, 
The  distant  swell  of  cloister  strain 
And  matin  hymn  came  o'er  her  brain, 
And  roused  to  life  her  slumbering  pain ; 
It  was  her  dirge — that  morning  song, 
And  slowly  rolled  the  notes  along 


100  THE    SISTERS  OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

The  cypress  groves — the  vaults — the  cells — 
Like  murder's  midnight  groan  which  tells 
The  fearful  deed  most  fearfully  ; 
And  there  the  lovely  Inez  lay 
In  suffering's  last  extremity, 
While  not  a  solitary  ray 
Of  light  relieved  the  heart-felt  gloom 
That  palled  her  spirit  in  the  tomb. 
It  was  a  mockery  of  her  woe — 
The  mass  of  hell  yelled  out  below— 
That  paean,  like  a  death-doom  sent 
Through  farthest  vault — through  deepest  cell, 
To  agonize  the  punishment 
Of  the  fair  one  Heaven  loved  so  well. 
But  oh,  no  fiend  with  things  can  cope 
Whom  GOD  hath  left  to  their  own  will — 
Giv'n  o'er  beyond  all  reach  of  hope, 
At  hate's  hell-cup  to  drink  their  fill ; 
The  deadliest  demon,  banned  the  most, 
May  fill  the  archangel's  holiest  throne 
Ere  mortal  once — forever  lost, 
Can  for  his  damning  deeds  atone. 
The  light  of  heaven  may  beam  o'er  hell 
Dimly  and  touch  the  apostate  there ; 
But  man,  abandoned,  bids  farewell 
To  hope,  and  weds  his  own  despair. 

v. 

Another  sound  the  stillness  broke, 

And  Inez'  bleeding  heart  awoke. 

It  was  the  wailing  of  a  dove, 

The  death-song  of  a  simple  bird 

O'er  her  who  died  for  heaven  and  love, 

And  gladly  were  the  soft  notes  heard. 


THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT    CLARA.  101 

Perched  on  a  cypress  o'er  her  cell, 

The  bird  hailed  not  the  glorious  sun, 

But  sadly  sung  the  last  farewell 

Of  the  pure,  sweet,  expiring  nun, 

To  earth  and  earthly  sins  and  woes 

And  life  so  early  in  its  close. 

As  Inez  listened  to  the  strain, 

And  longed  to  waft  it  back  again, 

The  shade  of  death  was  in  her  eye, 

The  pulses  of  her  being  beat 

Faintly,  and  death's  last  agony 

Came  o'er  her  like  a  shadowy  bloom, 

A  soft  voice  stealing  from  the  tomb, 

A  light  to  guide  the  parting  spirit 

Beyond  the  woes  that  all  inherit. 

Feebly  she  sunk — the  crimson  tide 

Gushed  forth  no  more — her  heart  was  still ; 

Yet  her  lips  trembled  as  she  died — 

"  Dion — forgive — my  wrongs  !"  and  'till 

Her  features  sunk  collapsed  in  death 

That  name  was  breathed  with  every  breath. 

VI. 

A  taper  gleams  amid  the  gloom — 
A  white-robed  form  approaches  near — 
It  pauses  by  the  dungeon  tomb, 
And  listens  tensely  as  in  fear, 
Or  hope — and  now  it  moves  again 
And  lifts  the  iron-bolted  grate, 
And  gazes  o'er  the  cell  of  pain, 
Doubting  its  lovely  tenant's  fate. 
Demon  !  go  in — thy  victim's  gone  ! 
Unseen,  unheard,  like  guilt  alone, 

9* 


102  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA 

Clotilde  doth  listen  there  awhile, 

And  then  descends — and  with  a  smile 

Deadly  and  dark  moves  round  the  corse, 

Whose  features  are  an  angel's  still. 

"  Dead  ? — Ay,  'tis  well — it  had  been  worse 

"  Had  justice  half  fulfilled  my  will 

"  Or  hadst  thou  lived  till  now  !" — She  turned 

The  lovely  vestal's  body  o'er, 

And  laughed  aloud ;  and  then  she  spurned 

The  corse  upon  its  gory  floor, 

And  smiled  as  if  she  gave  it  pain ; 

And  then  she  raised  the  beauteous  nun — 

"  Ay,  'tis  a  blessed  fate,  sweet  one  ! 

"  That  thou  hast  wrought  thyself — again 

"  Thou  would'st  not  do  the  deed  !"  She  threw 

The  pale,  cold  corse  in  scorn  away, 

And  yet  more  dark  her  features  grew, 

As  death  had  robbed  her  of  her  prey  ; 

And  still  she  stood,  with  fiend-like  eye, 

Revelling  in  hatred's  demon  feast, 

And  with  low  curse  and  muttered  cry 

Banning  e'en  HIM  who  had  released 

The  vestal  from  her  deadly  power 

And  raised  the  soul  to  Eden's  bower, 

When  a  loud  crash  rose  high — and  far 

The  echo  as  of  bolt  and  bar 

Shooting,  went  forth  ! — Where  art  thou  now, 

Proud  abbess  ?     Ah  !  thou  soon  wilt  know  ! 

The  iron  portal  to  the  cell, 

The  lifted  grate  had  fallen — how 

It  nought  avails  for  me  to  tell ; 

Perchance,  the  wind  had  laid  it  low, 

Or  death- winged  angel  might  have  thrown 

The  dreadful  bars  in  anger  down, 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA.  103 

Eternal  justice  to  dispense 

To  suffering,  murdered  innocence. 

Howe'er  it  was — proud  Clotilde  there 

Was  doomed  to  perish  with  the  dead, 

In  silence,  darkness  and  despair, 

And  meet  the  fate  her  sentence  said. 

There  could  be  no  relief — no,  none — 

She  had  gone  forth,  unseen,  alone, 

And  from  that  subterranean  cell 

No  cry  arose  to  human  ear ; 

It  was  a  dark  monastic  hell, 

Beyond  hope's  sun-illumined  sphere. 

She  shook  the  bars — but  they  were  fast — 

She  shrieked — but  echo  mocked  her  pain  ; 

She  gazed  around — but  shadows  past 

Like  fiends,  and  she  sunk  down  again. 

And  then  remorse  was  leagued  with  fear, 

And  both  like  vipers  gnawed  her  heart ; 

And  horrid  sounds  were  in  her  ear 

That  cried—"  What  dost  thou  here  ?  depart ! 

"  Seek  thou  the  hell  of  thy  dark  creed, 

"  Thine  be  the  doom  thou  hast  assigned, 

"  The  unpitying  bigot's  bitter  meed, 

"  The  quenchless  ruins  of  the  mind  ! 

"  Depart  I  depart !"  how  awful  e'er 

Is  guilt  when  phrenzied  by  its  fear  1 

VII. 

Unshrived,  she  there  must  die  in  all 
Her  unforgiven  guilt  and  woe  ; 
On  either  side  a  dungeon  wall, 
And  wrath  above  and  death  below, 
Unsoothed,  unpitied  and  alone, 
Without  a  single  orison, 


104  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA 

Without  a  tear  to  mourn  her  fate, 

Or  look  of  grief  compassionate, 

Or  holy  right  or  orris  pall 

Or  requiem  chanted  forth  by  all 

The  holy  vestal  sisterhood, 

Who  round  her  erst  admiring  stood 

As  if  St.  Marie  had  been  given 

To  them  in  other  form  from  heaven. 

But  such  be  guilt's  dark  fate  for  e'er  ! 

She  there  must  perish  dust  to  dust, 

Unshriven  in  the  dungeon  drear, 

Accursed  below — among  the  just 

All  entrance  barred  eternally  ! 

Now  guilt  forestalled  redemption's  hours, 

And  madness  sprung  from  agony  ! 

Darkly  the  storm  of  misery  lowers, 

And  darker  yet  it  soon  shall  be  ; 

For  Sin  uprears  her  giant  form 

And  mad  Remorse,  her  spectre,  stands, 

Gashed  by  the  fangs  of  guilt's  dark  worm, 

Lifting  on  high  his  gory  hands 

To  warn  too  late — to  tell  at  last 

The  victim  that  her  day  hath  past, 

And  yet  more  awful  thoughts  arise 

More  fearful  shadows  blast  her  view, 

And  wilder  are  her  echoed  cries, 

And  colder  is  the  dungeon-dew. 

VIII. 

Time  flies — strength  fails — but  madness  grovi 
Stronger  and  darker  in  its  mood, 
And  fevered  Fear  delirious  throws, 
O'er  all  the  gloom  a  robe  of  blood  ; 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA.  105 

And  now  she  sinks  beside  the  nun, 

There  like  a  song-lulled  angel  sleeping, 

And  smiling  as  her  woes  were  done, 

And  she  in  heaven  were  vigils  keeping. 

She  starts  as  if  an  adder  stung ! 

A  demon  voice  of  mirth  had  rung 

Through  all  the  chambers  of  her  brain  ; 

She  listens — now  it  comes  again, 

Blended  with  laughter  wild  and  rude, 

And  echoes  through  the  fatal  cell, 

And  cries  aloud — "  Thy  soul's  imbued 

"  With  blood  of  innocence  ; — 'tis  well 

"  That  on  thy  victim's  lifeless  breast 

"  Thou  should'st  sink  in  eternal  rest !" 

Her  maniac  heart  could  bear  no  more, 

The  last  extremity  had  come  ; 

She  grovelled  on  the  cold  earth  floor 

In  speechless  anguish  at  her  doom  ; 

Gazed  with  a  madden'd  eye,  that  told 

What  horrors  o'er  her  bosom  rolled, 

Upon  the  nun  who  slept  as  still 

As  infant  that  has  drank  its  fill ; 

Then  with  a  shriek  that  might  appal 

The  fiend,  against  the  dungeon  wall 

Dashed  headlong — groaned  and  died  ! — 'Tis  past, 

The  more  than  mortal  suffering. 

Alas  !  I  would  it  were  the  last ! 

But  earthly  minstrel  dare  not  sing 

Of  fates  beyond  the  farthest  ken 

Of  starry-eyed  philosophy  ; 

Among  the  abodes  of  mortal  men 

He  finds  enough  of  misery 


106  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

To  break  the  heart  and  rack  the  brain 
That  feels  or  thinks  of  human  pain. 
Her  fate  hath  past — her  soul  hath  fled — 
And  peace  attend  the  voiceless  Dead  ! 

IX. 

Life  scarce  had  parted  and  her  fate 

Passed  o'er  the  haughty  abbess  there, 

Ere  steps  approached  the  iron  grate, 

And  voices,  as  in  last  despair, 

Echoed  above  the  fatal  cell. — 

The  portal's  raised  and  they  descend, 

The  sisterhood. — Now  note  ye  well, 

Fair  vestals  !  ere  ye  ween  to  wend 

In  sin's  broad  path,  sin's  woful  end  ! 

The  highest  bliss  of  heaven  may  prove 

The  bitterest  dreg  in  misery's  cup, 

And  spirits  born  of  heaven  and  love 

By  guilt  be  lost  and  given  up 

To  state  abhorring  and  abhorred — 

And  not  adoring  and  adored ! 

Long  was  the  anxious  search  and  quest 

Ere  they  could  trace  their  abbess  there, 

And  anguish  searched  full  many  a  breast 

As  they  stood  gazing  in  despair 

On  murdered  and  on  murderess. 

I  pause  not  now  to  paint  the  scene — 

The  natural  ills  of  life  suffice 

To  fill  with  tears  the  sternest  eyes, 

When  thought  retraces  what  hath  been, 

To  gloom  the  heart  and  cloud  the  way 

That  shone  so  brightly  yesterday 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA.  107 

Together  from  the  dungeon  cell 

The  corses  were  in  silence  borne, 

While  lingering  tolled  the  funeral  knell, 

And  sullen  echoes  moaned  forlorn ; 

And  shrouded  in  their  vestments  white, 

They  laid  them  side  by  side,  and  kept 

Their  vigils  through  the  livelong  night, 

While  breathlessly  the  dead  ones  slept, 

As  softly  as  two  infants,  born 

Perchance,  to  be  each  other's  scorn ! 

The  wakeful  sisters  watched  alone, 

And  many  a  holy  rite  was  done 

To  foil  the  fiend  and  save  the  soul 

Of  her  who  once  held  high  control 

O'er  penance  stern  and  vow  austere, 

For  many  a  long  and  sinful  year. 

The  lovely  innocent  that  there 

Too  holy  was  for  grief  or  prayer, 

Lay  like  a  picture  of  the  blest, — 

'Twas  her  last  hour  and  loveliest ! 

They  watched — they  prayed — night  waned  and  morn, 

Like  holy  hope  in  Eden  born, 

Blushed  the  stained  glass  and  casement  through, 

And  gave  the  gloomy  scene  to  view. 

x. 

To  die — to  feel  the  spirit  fainting 

In  the  mansions  of  the  breast, 

While  yet  the  vivid  eye  is  painting 

Life  and  vigor  unpossessed ; 

To  see  the  mortal  frame  decaying, 

The  temple's  pillars  breaking  down, 

And  know  the  soul  will  soon  be  straying 


108 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 


Over  climes  and  realms  unknown  ; 
While  warm  affection  hovers  o'er 
The  couch  of  death,  with  wailing  prayer 
Imploring  lengthened  life  once  more 
In  all  the  anguish  of  despair  ; 
And  we  behold  and  feel  and  know 
All  that  is  felt  for  us  and  yet 
Beside  perceive  the  overthrow 
Of  hopes  on  which  the  heart  is  set, 
And  picture  in  our  dying  hour 
Anguish  unknown  till  we  are  dead, 
And  conscious,  hopeless  misery's  power, 
And  tears  from  being's  fountains  shed — 
Oh,  'tis  a  time,  an  hour  of  gloom 
Worse  than  the  midnight  of  the  tomb  ! 
But,  ah,  'tis  worse  to  think  that  we, 
The  proud,  high,  sentient  lords  of  earth, 
Must  moulder  into  dust  and  be 
Or  clay  or  nothing  !     At  our  birth 
It  was  decreed  that  we  should  die, 
But  not  that  we  should  rotting  lie 
With  every  foul  and  loathsome  thing 
Blending  our  ashes. — Fling,  oh,  fling 
My  corse  in  ocean's  booming  wave, 
Or  burn  it  on  the  funeral  pyre, 
But  lay  it  not  in  reeking  grave 
To  glimmer  with  corruption's  fire  ! 
St.  Clara's  funeral  bell  is  knelling 
With  the  solemn  voice  of  death, 
And  far  the  mournful  notes  are  swelling, 
While  from  postern  far  beneath 
Issue  the  white-robed  virgin  train, 
Chanting  low  the  requiem  strain, 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA.  109 

Over  the  dark  and  dismal  tomb 
Of  one  in  being's  roseate  bloom, 
And  one  in  sallow  withered  age, 
Departed  from  life's  tragic  stage. 
Where  sorrow  never  wakes  to  weep, 
And  ill  and  wrong  distract  no  more, 
And  homeless  wanderers  sweetly  sleep, 
And  hate  and  pride  and  pain  are  o'er, 
They  lay  the  vestals  finally. 
Above  them  waves  a  cypress  tree, 
Intwined  with  briar  and  rosemary, 
And  round  them  sleep  the  mighty  dead, 
Who  centuries  since  forever  fled  ; 
A  silent  nation  gone — alas  ! 
Where  living  thought  can  never  pass. 
The  ceremonial  pomp  is  past — 
The  vestals  vanish,  one  by  one — 
The  holy  father  is  the  last, 
And  even  he  hath  slowly  gone. 
And  stillness  reigns  o'er  all  the  scene, 
That  is  so  peaceful  and  serene  ; 
A  stillness  greatly  eloquent 
When  pious  spirits  bow  and  feel 
Delicious  melancholy,  sent 
From  heaven  o'er  all  their  being  steal 
With  purifying  breathings  mild  ; 
And  they  become  like  little  child 
Gentle  and  docile,  purely  good, 
In  their  communing  solitude, 
And  look  from  earth  to  heaven  with  eye 
Of  sage  reflecting  piety, 
Comparing  man's  allotment  here 
With  glories  of  a  brighter  sphere. 

10 


110  THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 

XI. 

O  Love  !  the  holiest  name  in  heaven, 
The  purest,  sweetest  thing  below  ! 
Why  are  thy  joys  to  torture  given  ? 
Thy  rapture's  unto  wailing  woe  ? 
Why  should  thy  fondest  votaries  prove 
Faithful  even  unto  death  in  vain  ? 
Or  why,  despite  thy  vows,  O  Love  ! 
Should  all  thy  blisses  close  in  pain  ? 

No  voice  was  heard — no  form  was  seen 

Within  the  churchyard's  lonely  bound, 

And  Dion,  from  his  weedy  screen, 

Rose  mournfully  and  gazed  around. 

Long  had  he  watched  each  lone — lone  houi 

For  some  faint  note  of  joy  or  grief, 

'Till  destiny's  most  dreaded  power 

To  him  had  almost  been  relief. 

But  nought  allayed  his  dread  suspense 

'Till  Inez  and  her  murderess 

Were  borne  to  that  lone  mansion  whence 

No  tenant  ever  found  egress. 

Then  flashed  the  whole  revealment  dire 

O'er  Dion's  burning  heart  and  brain, 

And  death  became  a  wild  desire, 

A  refuge  from  his  penal  pain. 

With  rolling  eye,  and  brow  of  gloom, 

And  pallid  cheek  and  trembling  tread, 

Dion  approached  the  robbing  tomb 

Where  Inez  slept  among  the  dead^ 

And  bowed  his  throbbing  head  upoti 

The  dark  funereal  tablet  stone 

Despairingly,  while  forth  his  tears 

Unbidden  gushed. — "  In  youthful  years 


THE    SISTEKS    OF   SAIJTT    CLARA.  Ill 

"  I  little  recked  of  fate  like  this ; 

"  I  thought  the  world  was  full  of  bliss 

"  And  man  most  blessed  in  life — Alas ! 

"  I  am  not  now  the  thing  I  was ; 

"  And  nought  remains  for  me  to  dare 

"  But  misery,  madness  and  despair  ; 

"  The  darkness  of  a  breast  that  bleeds 

"  O'er  the  wild  thought  of  damning  deeds, 

"  The  doom  that  never  will  depart 

"  From  the  dim  mansions  of  the  heart." 

He  drew  his  poniard,  looked  on  high 

For  the  last  time  with  gleaming  eye, 

Then  laid  him  down  the  grave  beside 

And  clove  his  heart !     The  purple  tide 

Gushed  like  a  torrent  and — he  died  ! 

The  last  glance  of  his  spirit  turning 

To  her  for  whom  his  heart  was  burning. 

XII. 

The  autumnal  sun's  rich  evening  beams 

Blush  o'er  Cantabria's  billowy  sea, 

And  Lusian  fields  and  groves  and  streams, 

Like  angel  smiles,  celestially  ; 

And  clustering  vines  hang  purpling  o'er 

The  shrubbery-mantled  palisade, 

And  golden  orange,  cypress  hoar, 

And  cork-tree  rough,  and  yew,  whose  shade 

The  dead  alone  doth  canopy, 

And  sunken  glen  and  dim  defile, 

Alike  in  nature's  bounties  free, 

Return  the  soul-inspiring  smile 

Of  Autumn — queen-muse  of  the  heart ! 

And  as  soft  evening's  hues  depart, 


112 


THE 


OF    SAINT    CLARA 


Like  holy  hopes  that  smile  in  death, 
And  twilight  robes  the  fading  sky 
With  beauty  felt,  not  seen — beneath 
The  spreading  palm,  the  lover's  eye 
Burns  as  he  tunes  his  soft  guitar, 
And  sees  his  own  dear  maid  afar, 
Approaching  her  rose-woven  bower 
To  solemnize  love's  sacred  hour. 
And  lordly  prince  and  shepherd  hind, 
And  lady  proud  and  simple  maid 
Enjoy  alike  the  season  kind, 
When  flowers  grow  lovelier  as  they  fade. 
Eve  shadows  dim  the  varied  scene, 
And  the  calm  sunlight  wanes  away, 
While  one  lone  cloud  of  lustre  sheen 
Still  wears  the  rays  of  parting  day, 
And  hangs  upon  the  zenith  sky, 
Like  hope  the  sad  heart  lingering  by. 


XIII. 


Looming  in  shadowy  twilight  o'er 

Tajo's  broad  bay  afar  is  seen, 

Scudding  toward  the  Lusian  shore, 

A  quick,  unladen  brigantine  ; 

And  now  it  grows  upon  the  eye, 

White  sail,  dark  hulk,  and  swan-like  prow ; 

And  swells  upon  the  evening  sky 

Like  castle  turreted  with  snow  ; 

And  full  the  rushing  wake  is  heard, 

Blent  with  command's  shrill-uttered  word, 

And  many  a  heart  throbs  fondly  now 

To  meet  its  loves  and  find  its  home, 

As  the  light  vessel  crinckles  slow 

Tho  waters  which  no  longer  foam. 


THE    SISTERS    OF   SAINT    CLARA.  113 

The  brigantine  is  moored — the  crew 

Are  busy,  boisterous,  glad  and  gay, 

And  jovial  crowds  are  there  ; — but  who 

Through  the  dense  throng  makes  rapid  way 

With  looks  so  proudly  desolate  ? 

'Tis  ZULMA,  who  hath  borne  her  fate 

And  yet  will  bear  'till  being's  close, 

All  she  hath  lost  and  still  can  lose, 

With  an  unshrinking  spirit  none 

Can  tame  or  crush  ; — she  is  alone 

In  desolation — but  she  bears 

Her  lofty  brow  unblanched,  and  throws 

Around  an  eye  undimned  by  tears, 

And,  as  she  hurries  on,  she  grows 

Stronger,  as  if  her  spirit  stood 

Prepared  for  woe  of  all  degree, 

And  agony  and  solitude, 

And  horror,  and  deep  misery. 

With  hurried  step  though  tearless  eye, 

She  came,  where  still  the  massy  towers 

Of  her  own  convent  rose  before  her 

And  cast  time's  deepened  shadows  o'er  her. 

From  many  a  tongue  too  soon  she  heard 

The  fatal  story  of  the  past, 

Told  too  with  many  a  needless  word, 

HThat  fell  like  Lybia's  desert  blast. 
Zulma  shrieked  not,  but  fiercely  rolled 
O'er  brain  and  heart  the  worst — the  last 

»Wild  storm  of  ruin  ;  hope  fell  dead, 
And  her  high  spirit  'neath  its  own 
Intensity  was  crushed  ;  she  said 
Nothing  responsive — sigh  nor  groan, 
Nor  scream  nor  cry  was  heard  ;  she  threw 

10* 


114 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA. 


Her  bleeding  eye  to  heaven  and  bowed 

A  moment  as  in  prayer — then  grew 

Like  desperation  calm. — A  crowd, 

As  toward  St.  Clara's  towers  she  went, 

Followed  in  mute  astonishment 

That  she  should  thus  defy  despair 

And  her  own  certain  ruin  dare. 

Soon  ceased  their  marvel — Zulma  came 

Beneath  the  window  of  her  cell, 

And  upward  gazed — and  sighed  the  name, 

The  memory  of  the  victim  nun, 

The  loved,  'the  lost,  the  lonely  one, 

Who  shed  o'er  life  the  only  spell 

The  true  heart  loves  and  prizes  welL 

And  as  she  gazed  with  mournful  eye 

On  dusky  wall  and  cypress  grove, 

The  soul  whose  pride  could  never  die, 

The  spirit  of  immortal  love 

That  never  sheds  a  human-  tear, 

Was  journeying  to  a  holier  sphere. 


XIV. 


"  Jesu  Maria  !  who  art  thou  ? 
"  Christ  and  the  Virgin  shield  us  now !" 
A  war-steed  dashes  through  the  throng— 
A  horseman  leaps  upon  the  ground, 
And  rushes  like  a  maniac  strong 
Toward  dying  Zulma,  while  around 
Gather  the  crowd  to  mark  the  scene — 
For  one  so  mournful  ne'er  had  been. 
Zulma  looked  up — a  faint  smile  passed, 
Like  silvery  moon-beam  on  the  wave, 
O'er  lip  and  eye  and  then  it  cast 


THE    SISTERS    OF    SAINT    CLARA.  115 

Behind  the  death  hue  of  the  grave. 

Low  bowed  the  horseman,  Julian,  there. 

And  fearful  was  his  agony ; 

He  .kneeled,  like  statue  of  despair, 

In  hopeless,  speechless  misery  ; 

But  quivering  lips  and  burning  brow 

Were  worse  than  vain  and  idle  now. 

"  Zulma  " — he  said  at  last,  but  wild 

Came  then  the  memory  of  his  shame, 

And  Zulma's  eye  so  proudly  smiled 

He  trembled  but  to  speak  her  name. 

For  she  was  calm  as  all  must  be 

Who  triumph  o'er  the  demon — man, 

And  hold  their  pride  and  purity 

Above  corruption's  blight  and  bann. 

But  life  was  ebbing  fast  away 

From  Zulma's  broken  heart  and  how, 

While  yet  was  left  a  conscious  ray 

Or  never  more  his  words  must  flow. 

He  spake  at  last — his  words  were  few 

But  full  of  dark  remorseful  power, 

The  out-pourings  of  the  soul's  mildew, 

That  taints  each  lovely  blooming  flower, 

Making  all  life  a  waste  ! — The  fire 

Of  being,  that  had  sunk  and  waned 

In  Zulma's  bosom,  burned  again 

Brightly  a  moment  and  there  reigned 

A  majesty  'mid  all  her  pain 

That  daunted  Julian,  as  she  strove 

To  rise  upon  a  maiden's  breast ; — 

"  Prince  Julian  !  that  thou  had'st  my  love, 

"  And  that  in  thine  I  was  most  blest, 

"  'Tis  bootless  now  to  own ;  my  doom 


]16  THE    HOUR    AT    WILL. 

"  Is  sealed  forever  and  the  tomb 
"  Must  be  the  resting-place  of  one 
"  Who  once — who  yet  loves  thee  alone  ; 
"  Thou  hast  my  pardon  while  I  live — 
"  Forgive  thyself  as  I  forgive  /" 
Backward  she  fell — faint  grew  her  breath, 
Life  left  her  cheek,  her  brow,  her  eye  ; 
Slow  o'er  her  heart  came  chilling  death — 
Zulma  is  in  eternity ! 


THE  HOUR  AT  ¥ILL. 

PART   I. 

Tis  only  when  the  heat  and  dust  and  toil 
Of  day  have  passed,  my  better  heart  can  smile  , 
Tis  only  when  in  weariness  and  pain, 
My  task  hath  ceased  to  bind  my  dizzy  brain, 
That  gentler  thoughts  and  holier  feelings  come 
Like  angel  visitants,  and  guide  me  home — 
Home  to  the  hallowed  temple  of  the  mind, 
Where  heaven's  own  music  rolls  upon  the  wind. 
And,  oh,  while  wandering  'mid  the  cold  and  low, 
And  mocking  Mammon  with  a  smile  and  bow, 
While  doomed  to  wear  o'er  deep  contempt,  applause, 
And  crush  my  nature  'neath  the  world's  vain  laws, 
How,  like  a  lost  child,  seeking  home  once  more, 
My  bosom  brightens,  and  my  soul  doth  soar ! 
How,  like  the  eagle  of  my  native  clime, 
Genius  aspires  beyond  the  reach  of  Time  ! 
Then,  for  a  moment,  glad  oblivion  throws 
Its  deep  veil  o'er  my  trials  and  my  woes, 


THE    HOUR    AT    WILL.  117 

And  trickling  touches  of  a  kindlier  mood, 

Like  summer  evening  o'er  the  ancient  wood, 

Soothe  evil  passions,  lull  the  heart  to  rest, 

And  blend  the  spirit  with  the  pure  and  blest ; 

And  I  forget  that  Fortune  is  my  foe, 

And  Man  the  fiend  that  reigns  in  human  woe ; 

That  lineal  hatred  o'er  my  childhood  spread 

The  gloom,  though  not  the  slumber  of  the  dead, 

And  yet  prevails  to  sadden  every  scene 

Where  hope  and  love  and  loveliness  have  been. 

All  these  pass  from  me  in  the  hour  of  pride, 

Like  smouldering  wrecks  down  ocean's  billowy  tide. 

With  downcast  eyes  and  tiar'd  head  declin'd, 

His  gold- wrought  purple  floating  in  the  wind, 

Gazing  on  valley,  forest,  stream  and  flood, 

Against  a  rock  the  Persian  monarch  stood  ; 

While,  far  below,  his  vassal  millions  lay 

Like  bristling  tigers  couchant  for  their  prey, 

Ardent  as  eagles,  joyous  as  the  lark 

Whose  music  melts  along  the  silvery  dark, 

Full  of  high  hope  of  conquest,  power  and  fame, — 

That  golden  shroud  for  every  mortal  name  ! 

And,  as  he  gazed  upon  this  pomp  of  power 

One  trump  had  summon'd  to  his  palace  bower, — 

The  haughty  Despot  wept  that  Time  should  cast 

Their  names,  like  ashes,  on  the  fire-winged  blast, 

That,  ere  three-score  of  hurrying  years  went  by, 

His  glorious  millions, — each  and  all  would  die  ! 

Each  for  himself,  philosopher  or  bard, 

Must  toil  uncheered  and  be  his  own  reward 

Through  evils  countless  as  the  midnight  dews — 

The  victim  votary  of  the  thriftless  muse— 

Till  bursts  the  sun  of  Fame's  rejoicing  day, 


118  THE    IIOUK    AT    WILL. 

And  the  hours  blossom  like  the  buds  of  May, 

And  Youth's  dim  hope  out-blazes  like  a  star 

High  throned  in  heaven  and  gleaming  from  afar. 

And  flatterers  crawl  around  the  honoured  one 

Mocked  when  obscure  and  trampled  when  unknown  ! 

What  recks  the  world — stern,  haughty  and  austere; — 

From  whose  swoln  eye  slow  drops  the  undried  tea  r  ? 

What  recks  the  world  if  care  and  grief  assail 

The  heart  that  suffers  though  it  will  not  quail  * 

If  doubt  and  darkness  gather  round  his  way, 

Whose  spirit  revels  in  the  light  of  day  ? 

If,  poor  and  friendless,  Genius  must  submit 

And  panier'd  dullness  crush  the  choisest  wit  ? 

If  earth  becomes,  by  man's  inhuman  guile, 

A  hell,  the  deeper  that  the  sun-beams  smile  ? 

And  Mind,  new  lighted  at  the  throne  of  God, 

Darken  and  sink  and  mingle  with  the  sod  ? 

What  recks  the  world,  ere  wakes  the  son  of  Fame, 

Who  blights  and  execrates  an  unknown  name  ? 

Or  who  bands  forth  a  menial  miscreant  host 

And  triumphs  o'er  archangel  spirits  lost  ? 

— Dark  are  the  shades  that  cloud  thy  mortal  hours, 

Poor  lonely  wanderer  from  elysian  bowers, 

And  few  the  joys,  earth's  silken  sons  possess, 

Light  the  wild  horrors  of  thy  wilderness  ! 

As  sable  clouds  along  the  evening  sky 
Glow  with  the  glories  of  the  sun's  bright  eye, 
So  the  dull  toils  of  daily  life  assume, 
When  Genius  smiles,  the  beauty  and  the  bloom 
Of  unseen  realms,  where  holiest  spirits  sing 
'Mid  the  fair  gardens  of  an  endless  spring. 
Few  and  uncertain  'mid  the  cares  of  life, 


TUB    HOUR    AT    WILL.  119 

The  sin,  the  sorrow,  and  the  hate  and  strife, 
Are  the  brief  hours  devoted  to  the  shrine 
Of  Love,  whose  purest  worship  is  divine, 
But  these  quick  moments  gladden  and  uplift, 
And  bear  us  through  the  sublety  and  thrift, 
The  coldness,  darkness,  solitude  and  want, 
The  woes  that  wither  though  they  cannot  daunt, 
Raise  and  refine  the  grovelling  works  of  man, 
And  lead  us  back  where  Life  in  Love  began. 
Like  summer  showers,  when  wanes  the  burning  day, 
These  hours  of  pride,  athwart  our  weary  way, 
Gleam  with  a  mellow  gladness  and  repose, 
That  strengthen  bleeding  hearts  to  bear  their  woes, 
And  through  all  wrong  and  evil  guide  us  on, 
Though  poor  yet  proud,  though  friendless  not  alone. 
Then  fruit  and  blossom  mingle  on  each  tree, 
The  soul  soars  gladly  and  the  heart  is  free  ; 
Soft  airs  float  by  with  music  on  their  wings, 
And  the  lyre  warbles  from  a  thousand  strings  ; 
The  heart's  best  feelings — all  the  joys  of  youth, 
Dreams  in  the  green- wood — hope  and  love  and  truth, 
Thoughts  by  lone  fountains,  in  their  freshest  bloom, 
And  chastened  sorrow  o'er  affection's  tomb- 
All — all  come  back  and  win  the  soul  afar 
From  earth's  dark  galley  toil  and  rankling  war, 
Gild  the  dense  gloom  of  error,  fraud  and  sin, 
And  crown  the  altar  of  the  heart  within. 

Yet,  like  wild  lightning  lifting,  fold  on  fold, 
Such  awful  gloom  as  wrapt  the  world  of  old, 
To  show  how  green  and  beautiful  beneath 
The  earth  lies  covered  with  the  veil  of  death, 
These  high  revealments  mock  the  dazzled  mind, 


120  THE    HOUR   AT    WILL. 


:. 


Leave,  as  they  vanish,  deeper  gloom  behind, 

Melt  the  touch'd  heart  that  should  be  proud  and  stern, 

And,  like  frankincense  gushing  from  an  urn, 

O'erpower  the  vision,  that  should  settle  on 

The  thin  cold  ashes  of  the  dead  alone. 

With  feelings  purified  and  sense  refined 

And  the  veil'd  glories  of  a  mighty  mind, 

The  bard  goes  forth,  from  solitude  sublime, 

To  meet  and  grapple  with  a  world  of  crime, 

Like  a  bright  seraph  in  some  distant  star, 

To  feel  his  spirit  with  his  fate  at  war, 

To  know  his  greatness  and  to  bear  the  scorn 

Of  the  miscreant  menials  on  the  dung-hill  born, 

To  walk  abroad,  with  radiant  Genius  crowned, 

While  crowded  solitude  hangs  coldly  round, 

And  seek,  once  more,  the  muse's  lonely  room, 

And  sigh  to  sink  to  slumber  in  the  tomb  ! 

Such  is,  hath  been,  will  be  the  doom  of  minds 

That  cast  their  glories  in  the  world's  vain  winds ! 


PART   II. 

STARS  of  the  heart !  immortal  lights  that  glow 
Along  life's  lone  and  weary  way  of  wo, 
That  lengthens,  lingers  like  a  pilgrim  vowed 
To  some  far  shrine  he  parts  from  in  his  shroud, 
How  soft  and  soothingly  ye  come  and  spread 
A  blooming  veil  around  the  changed  and  dead, 
Like  the  faint  mind,  inspire  each  drooping  thought, 
And  hymn  the  magic  beauty  ye  have  wrought ! 
There's  not  a  desert  on  the  Earth  so  drear, 
But  fountains  sometimes  gush  and  gurgle  near  ? 


THE   HOUR    AT   WILL.  121 

There's  not  a  wilderness  so  sad  and  lone 
Without  its  dweller  and  a  kindred  one  ; 
There's  not  an  iceberg  in  the  arctic  sea, 
But  bears  life,  feeling,  joy  and  liberty  ; 
And  every  heart,  however  worn  and  lost 
To  all  it  loved  and  idolized  the  most, 
However  pierced  and  manacled,  and  cast 
A  wreck  and  ruin  on  life's  dewless  waste — 
Against  the  storm  of  grief  may  still  bear  up, 
Though  it  hath  drained  affliction's  poison  cup, 
And  smile  oft-times  and  blend  its  wonted  powers 
With  minds  unknown  in  childhood's  leafy  bowers, 
Such  Nature's  best ;  while  life  prevails,  there's  hope* 
And  strength  still  given  with  despair  to  cope — 
DESPAIR  !  oft  uttered  in  a  reckless  mood, 
By  earth's  victims  never  understood, 
The  grim,  gaunt  tyrant  of  the  fiends  who  fell, 
Born  of  Remorse — the  quenchless  fires  of  hell ! 
From  bosoms  dark  and  rugged  gushes  forth 
Full  many  a  stream  to  fertilize  the  Earth, 
As  from  the  black  rock  of  the  desert  poured 
The  clear  cold  waters  while  the  host  adored  ; 
And  they,  who  walk  in  wisdom  and  in  truth, 
May  oft,  'mid  strangers,  drink  the  joys  of  youth, 
And  find  their  sojourn  gladdened  by  some  voice, 
That  bids  the  fainting  and  sick  heart  rejoice. 
Good,  through  victorious  evil,  oft  appears, 
Justice  may  mark  the  guiltless  suppliant's  tears, 
Hope  may  rejoice  in  happier  days  to  come, 
And  truth  leave  not  the  world  in  utter  gloom. 
Man  clings  to  man  through  every  wo  and  wrong, 
And  woman  wins  the  daring  and  the  strong. 
To  all,  on  whom  the  heartless  world  hath  laid 

11 


122 


THE    HOUR    AT    WILL. 


Its  ban — to  all  confiding  and  betrayed 
By  serpent  lures,  repulsed  and  cast  aside 
By  the  red  Moloch  hand  of  menial  pride — 
How  bright,  how  cheeringly — the  world  forgot, 
And  all  the  evils  of  the  poor  man's  lot — 
Loved  faces  smile  around  their  home  of  Love, 
Loved  voices  breathe  the  gladness  of  the  Dove, 
And  sooth  the  anguish  of  proud  spirits  stirred, 
By  the  soft  magic  of  a  gentle  word  ! 
Passions  as  dire  as  winds  in  wildest  wrath 
And  desolating  as  the  lava's  path, 
Sink  into  slumber,  broken  and  subdued 
By  the  low  voice  of  Love's  sweet  solitude. 
Deep  hate  and  wild  revenge  have  oft  foregone 
Their  fixed  resolves  while  some  belovod  one, 
With  few  kind  words  and  one  ambrosial  kiss, 
Filled  a  dark  bosom  with  a  seraph's  bliss. 
Laws,  manners,  morals  and  traditions  old, 
And  customs  antique  as  the  banner's  fold, 
Fortune  and  faith — dominion,  pride,  and  power, 
And  all  that  magnifies  man's  scepterd  hour, 
Rose  up,  like  spectres,  when  in  secret  spoke 
Woman — and  forth  the  Persian  edict  broke  ! 
When  War's  deep  trump  awoke  the  world  to  arms, 
Search  out  the  cause  in  woman's  fatal  charms ! 
When  peace  flies  smiling  o'er  the  bloomy  realm, 
Lo  !  angel  love  directs  the  monarch's  helm  ! 
When  the  fierce  Bandit  leaves  the,  work  of  death, 
His  wrong'd  heart  melts  beneath  affection's  breath: 
When  the  blest  Sabbath  o'er  the  city  throws 
A  cheerful  sanctity  and  hushed  repose, 
Gaze  on  the  mother  when  her  children  kneel — 
Few  worship  God — but  every  heart  can  feel  ! 
When  drops  the  dagger  from  the  madman's  grasp, 


THE    HOUR   AT  WILL.  123 

Who  folds  his  writhing  form  in  love's  own  clasp, 

And  with  prophetic  vows  and  burning  tears, 

Leads  mind  to  triumph  in  the  coming  years  ? 

Who  on  the  Statesman,  in  his  household  bowers, 

Bestows  the  tenderness  of  youthful  hours, 

And  pillows  on  her  breast  the  mighty  mind 

Revered,  admired,  and  dreaded  by  mankind  ? 

Who  shield  the  weakness,  guide  the  scornful  pride, 

And  sooths — deserted  by  the  world  beside — 

The  bitter  sorrows  of  ambition  thrown 

On  the  dark  desert  of  despair  alone  ? 

Who  casts  o'er  ruined  hope  and  glory  passed 

Verdure  that  breathes  and  blossoms  o'er  the  waste  ? 

Who,  like  the  sunset  of  an  autumn  even, 

Gives  unto  Earth  the  glorious  light  of  heaven  ? 

Woman,  devoted,  cheerful  and  serene, 

Lives  in  all  laws  and  blends  with  every  scene, 

Pours  proud  ambition  through  each  burning  vein, 

And  tends  the  soldier  on  the  battle  plain ; 

Gives  to  the  poet  all  his  might  of  mind, 

And  gilds  the  desert  fancy  leaves  behind  ; 

Uplifts  the  feeble,  quells  the  daring,  throws 

The  hues  of  heaven  o'er  all  desponding  woes, 

Moves  upon  earth  the  pilgrim  bound  to  love, 

And  mounts,  a  seraph,  to  her  God  above  ! 

Oft,  when  forsaken,  trampled  and  reviled 
While  on  my  solitude  no  eye  hath  smiled, 
When  left  to  breast  and  buffet,  as  I  might, 
The  faithless  billows  of  a  stormy  night, — 
Oft  have  I  found  in  one  beside  me  now, 
(Her  of  the  starry  eye  and  sunny  brow) 
A  tender  solace  and  a  mild  content 
Earth  could  not  give  with  all  her  blandishment. 


124 


THE    HOUR    AT   WILL. 


And  she  hath  cheered  me  with  a  spirit  free 

To  range  the  realms  of  high  philosophy, 

A  heart  imbued  with  such  ethereal  power 

As  wraps  the  saint  in  his  sublimest  hour, 

While  her  fair  features,  soft  as  twilight's  gush, 

Lightened  and  flashed,  and,  with  a  solemn  rush, 

Her  words  of  truth  and  hope  and  love  came  o'er 

My  heart,  like  moonlight  on  a  rock-barr'd  shore. 

And  I  have  born  the  coward's  dark  attack, 

Hate's  dungeon  ordeal,  envy's  midnight  rack, 

The  scorn  of  fools,  the  sayings  of  the  vile, 

The  branded  felon's  hypocritic  smile, 

The  altered  eye  of  friends,  the  sapient  saws 

Of  dotard  pedants,  and  the  moral  laws 

Of  convicts  guiltier  than  the  dungeon  cell 

E'er  held  in  chains,  or  deepest  vault  in  'hell — 

With  a  calm  eye,  a  conscious  brow  that  threw 

The  reptile  back  to  feed  on  demon  dew. 

For  still  the  angel  of  my  pathway  said 

"  'Twere  just — but  oh,  strike  not  the  serpent  dead 

"  He  bears  a  death — a  living  scorpion  death 

"  In  every  pulse  and  vein  and  thought  and  breath, 

"  Leave  him  the  doom  thy  righteous  hand  would  end- 

"  Leave  him  on  earth  without  a  single  friend  !" 

Shall  I  not  praise  the  wise  and  winning  art 

That  drew  the  lightning  from  my  burning  heart  ? 

Shall  I  not  feel  as  time  leaves  all  my  foes 

In  the  oblivion  of  unblest  repose, 

And  on  our  mingled  tides  of  being  run 

In  little  channels  glancing  to  the  sun, 

That  wisdom  dwells  with  loveliness  and  gives 

A  hallowed  pleasure  to  our  troubled  lives, 

A  conscious  trust  of  happier  days  in  store, 

For*  hearts  undoubting,  that  in  grief  adore  ? 


THE    DEATH   SCENE.  125 

Without  a  fear  that  truth  will  not  prevail, 
Without  a  glance  at  slander's  thrice-forged  tale, 
Prizing  heaven's  gifts  too  high  to  boast  or  vaunt, 
Feeling  a  heart  that  danger  cannot  daunt, 
And,  with  contempt  ineffable  and  strong, 
Beholding  rioters  in  human  wrong, 
With  thee,  my  bride  ! — and  thee,  my  bright-eyed  boy ! 
I  share  my  sorrow — ye  partake  my  joy. 
Earth  holds  a  home  and  coming  time  a  name, 
That  may  not  vanish  from  the  roll  of  Fame ! 


THE  DEATH  SCENE. 

GLIMMERING  amid  the  shadowy  shapes  that  float 
In  sickly  Fancy's  vision  o'er  the  walls 
Of  Death's  lone  room,  the  trembling  taper  burns 
Dimly,  and  guides  my  fearful  eye  to  trace 
The  wandering  track  of  parting  life  upon 
The  burning  brow  and  sallow  cheek  of  him 
Whose  smile  was  paradise  to  me  and  mine. 
The  autumnal  wind  breathes  pantingly  and  comes 
With  hollow  sighs  through  yon  high  window  o'er 
Thy  feverish  couch,  my  love  !  and  seems  to  sob 
Amid  the  waving  curtains  as't  would  tell 
My  heart  how  desolate  it  will  become 
When  left  in  its  lone  widowhood  to  weep 
And  wail  and  agonize  at  Memory's  tale. 
The  outward  air  is  chill,  but,  oh,  thy  breast, 
My  dying  love  !  is  scorching  with  the  fires 
That  centre  in  thy  heart,  and  thy  hot  breath 

11* 


126  THE    DEATH    SCENE. 


Heaves  sobbingly,  like  the  sirocco  gale 

That  heralds  death  ;  and  thou  art  speechless  now, 

Save  what  thy  glaring  eyes  can  tell,  for  life 

Is  parting  from  thy  bosom  silently. 

Thy  pulse  is  wild  and  wandering,  and  thy  limbs 

Are  writhing  in  convulsive  agony, 

And,  while  thy  spirit  hovers  o'er  the  verge 

Of  Fate,  thou  canst  not  speak  to  me  nor  bid 

Thy  chosen  one  a  long  farewell !     O  Heaven  ! 

Let  thy  sweet  mercy  wait  upon  his  end 

And  life's  last  struggle  close — 'tis  vain  to  hope 

For  life — then  take  his  soul  on  gentle  wing 

Away,  and  let  the  sufferer  rest  with  Thee  ! 

Alas  !  hath  He  who  rules  the  universe 

Replied  to  my  wild  wish  ?  oh,  give  me  back 

The  spirit  of  my  love  for  one  brief  hour — 'tis 

'Tis  o'er  !  my  love,  my  happiness,  my  hope. 

I  sit  beside  a  corse  !     How  deadly  still 

Is  the  lone  chamber  he  hath  left !    The  moan 

Of  dying  nature,  and  the  bursting  sigh 

Of  a  heart  breaking,  and  the  murmuring  voice 

Of  a  delirious  spirit — all  are  hushed ! 

The  eye  that  kindled  love  in  my  young  heart 

And  told  me  I  was  blessed,  is  lustreless — 

And  those  dear  lips,  that  oft  illumed  my  soul, 

Are  stiffening  now  ;  those  features  exquisite, 

On  which  I  often  gazed  as  on  a  mirror 

Beaming  with  beauty,  genius,  feeling — all 

That  love  adores  and  honor  sanctifies, 

Collapse  in  their  dread  slumbers  and  assume 

The  ashen  deadliness  of  soulless  dust. 

And  must  it  be,  my  love  !  that  thou  wilt  sleep 

Where  I  can  never  watch  thy  wants  and  glide 

Around,  thy  gentle  minister  ?     No  more 


THE     DEATH    SCENE.  127 

Read  voiceless  wishes  in  thy  pleading  eye 

And  soothingly  discharge  them  ?     Art  thou  gone, 

Or  is  it  but  a  dream  ?     O  thou  dost  dwell 

Within  my  heart  unchangeably  as  wont 

And  ever  wilt ! — I  sit  beside  the  Dead 

Alone,  while  round  me  the  world  is  bent 

On  pleasure — on  a  shadow  from  the  dust ! 

The  bright  blue  wave  of  Hudson  rolls  below 

My  solitary  view  and  sounds  of  joy 

Fling  music  o'er  its  waters  and  the  voice 

Of  gayety  is  rising  on  my  ear, — 

Like  banquet  mirth  amid  the  pyramids. 

O  the  full  consciousness  of  utter  loss  ! 

The  single  wretchedness  of  cureless  woe 

While  all  around  are  gay  !     The  chaos  wild 

Of  billowy  thought,  on  whose  tumultuous  tides 

Hopes,  powers  and  passions — all  the  elements 

Of  heart  and  soul  in  foamy  whirlpools  toss 

'Till  whelmed  in  ruin  ! — Lovely  babe  !  thou  hast 

]\To  father  now,  and  where,  my  orphan  child  ! 

Will  close  our  wanderings  ?     I  have  no  home 

For  thee,  dove  of  the  storm  without  an  ark 

To  bear  thee  o'er  the  waters  of  the  Waste  ! 

Cold,  voiceless  mansion  of  my  ruined  love  ! 

Til  close  thine  eyes  and  kiss  thy  pallid  lips. 

And  watch  beside  thee  for  the  livelong  night — 

The  last,  last  night  I  shall  behold  thy  form ! 

O  agony,  and  they  will  bury  thee  ! 

Will  snatch  thee  from  the  pillow  of  my  heart, 

And  lay  thee  in  the  damp  unbreathing  tomb  ! 

Sleep,  my  sweet  child  !  thou  knowest  not  the  pain 

Of  the  sad  bosom  that  thou  slumberest  on. 

It  is  some  joy  that  thou  feel'st  not  the  loss 

Of  him  who  \vould  have  worshipped  his  firstborn. 


128  THE     DEATH    SCENE. 


The  world  is  silent  round  me  ;  pale  the  moon 

Gleams  on  the  clay-shut  eyes  of  him  who  loved 

Her  gentle  light  in  life,  and  o'er  his  cold, 

Collapsed,  unchanging,  melancholy  face 

Plays  her  transparent  beam  of  love.     My  heart ! 

Thy  bleeding  tears  would  drown  my  soul,  if  yet 

One  being  lived  not  in  my  life  to  tell 

How  dear  he  was  to  me.     Farewell,  my  love  ! 

Our  slumbers  now  will  be  no  more  as  wont ! 

Yet  e'en  in  paradise  thou  wilt  behold 

Thine  earthly  love  and  bend  from  heaven  to  shed 

Immortal  hopes  o'er  nature's  funeral  urn. 


Days,  weeks  and  months  passed  o'er  me  and  were  seen 

Vanishing  away  with  that  pale,  meek  content 

Which  doth  exist,  against  the  spirit's  will, 

So  glad  was  I  to  feel  that  burden,  Time. 

Dropping  from  my  pierced  heart ;  for  I  did  live 

Among,  but  yet  not  with  the  living — tears 

Suppressed  within  the  fountains  of  the  soul, 

Congealed  like  waters  in  deep  cavern-halls. 

My  being  passed  'mid  shadows,  and  the  things 

Familiar  once  assumed  or  unknown  form 

Or  appendage  unknown,  and  to  my  eye 

The  faces  erst  beloved  appeared  like  those 

Imagination  images  in  dreams ; 

And  oft  I  feared  to  speak,  lest  I  should  be 

Abandoned  to  my  woe  ;  and,  if  I  spake, 

My  voice  re-echoed  round  me  like  the  cries 

Of  shipwrecked  mariners  at  night.     My  brain 

Was  fevered  with  my  dreadful  anguish,  which 

Grew  by  repression,  like  the  Rebel  Flower,* 

*  The  Camomile 


THE     DEATH    SCENE.  129 

Until  it  mastered  reason,  or  whatever 

Name  that  observant  faculty  doth  bear 

Whose  power  is  o'er  the  visible  universe. 

There  was  a  dread  unmeasured,  in  my  thought, 

A  vague  idea  of  something  horrible, 

And  I  lived  on  like  one  in  broken  sleep, 

Forever  searching  for  some  lost  companion, 

And  wandering  in  mazes  dark  as  doom, 

Where  the  heart  faints  and  fails,  and  hope  expires. 

Yet  amid  all  the  estranging  of  my  love 

I  still  clung  to  my  child  ;  a  mother's  heart 

Retains  its  deep  devotion  to  her  dear 

And  pang-bought  offspring,  when  the  woman's  mind 

Is  laid  in  ruins  ;  and  her  bosom  burns 

With  love  instinctive  for  an  innocent 

And  lovely  creature  whom  her  spirit  knows 

Only  as  something  worthy  to  be  loved. 

Folding  the  orphan  to  my  heart,  I  went 

Abroad  the  mansion  witlessly,  and  searched 

Its  chambers  desolate,  and  then  returned 

In  wildered  disappointment  that  the  thing 

I  looked  for  could  no  where  be  found. — I  sat 

In  the  lone  winter  nights  before  the  dim 

And  melancholy  embers,  and  did  hush 

My  breath  while  listening  for  the  tread  of  him 

Who  ever  spent  his  evenings  with  his  love 

In  social  converse  ; — but  he  came  not,  so 

I  sighed  and  murmured  to  my  prattling  babe 

That  he  would  soon  return ;  but  then  I  thought 

That  he  had  gone  to  a  far  land  and  left 

His  duties  to  my  care  and  faithful  watch. 

And  so  I  oped  his  escritoir  and  saw 

His  papers,  pens  and  pencils  and  all  things 

Disposed  e'eu  as  he  left  them,  and  I  felt 


130 


THE     DEATH    SCENE. 


That  I  could  not  arrange  them  otherwise 

If  they  were  wrong ; — his  closet  then  I  searche< 

And  there  his  vestments  hung  familiarly 

And  appositely  arrayed. — I  returned 

From   such    short   wanderings  sad,    and   sometimes 

thought 

My  love  had  told  me  he  should  dwell  no  more 
Upon  the  earth — and  then  my  heart  did  feel 
As  if  it  floated  in  a  lava  sea. 
Thus  passed  my  strange  existence  from  the  day 
He  died  until  disease  my  infant  laid 
Upon  his  suffering  couch,  and  I  became 
His  sleepless  watcher.     Long  I  sat  beside 
The  lovely  one,  attending  all  his  wants 
And  sick  caprices  uncomplainingly, 
Yet  all  unconscious  that  he  was  my  son, 
Till  one  said  he  was  dying — then  there  flashed 
Through  my  dark  spirit  thoughts  long  dead,  and  tears 
Quenched  the  dull  fire  that  burned  upon  my  brain. 
And  left  my  heart's  fair  path  a  desert  way, 
Calm  though  'twas  dreary.     Life  hath  direful  ills 
And  woes  and  sufferings,  but  the  fiercest  lie 
In  madness,  e'er  in  dread  of  heaven  and  earth. 
It  cannot  weep — it  doth  not  think,  and  yet 
It  hath  both  tears  and  thoughts,  the  one  of  blood. 
Of  pangs  the  other ;  all  its  feelings  coil 
Like  serpents  round  the  heart  and  sting  the  core 
Unceasingly,  and  all  the  sweet  ideas 
Of  love  and  friendship  round  the  racked  brain  twine 
Like  knotted  adders,  venomous  and  blind. 
Pierce,  O  thou  Holy  One  !  the  heart,  but  spare 
The  spirit !     Let  thy  judgments  fall  upon 
The  affections,  but  preserve  the  immortal  soul ! 


THE    DEATH    SCENE.  131 

My  child  was  spared  me  ;  and  the  tale  I  tell 
Was  gathered  from  the  loved  ones  who  beheld 
But  could  not  soothe  my  agony,  and  those 
Impressions  I  retain  of  sights  and  sounds 
That  floated  by  me  in  bewilderment. 

****** 
It  was  the  Sabbath's  herald  eve  ;  and  pained 
With  melancholy  musings,  such  as  hearts 
Bleeding  with  sorrow  nourish,  forth  I  went 
To  gaze  on  nature's  pensive  face  and  smile 
Of  virgin  softness,  and  I  felt  the  sense 
Of  her  deep  loveliness  stealing  o'er  my  woes 
While  watching  her  pure  countenance,  now  veil'd 
In  moonlight  and  her  changeful  robes  of  green, 
Azure  and  silver-blended,  while  she  looked 
Like  one  who  was  to  me  what  angels  are 
To  paradise — the  living  fount  of  joy. 
A  diamond  star  was  floating  'mid  the  waves 
Of  pearl,  that  danced  along  the  silver  wake 
Of  Dian's  bark,  and  it  did  seem  like  love 
Adorning  innocence  ;  while  in  the  midst 
Of  ether  hung  the  rosy  isles  of  bliss, 
Where  spirits  as  they  bear  the  bests  of  heaven 
And  warder  Zion's  towers,  lift  up  the  songs 
That  soaring  souls  forever  sing  above. 
The  thought  of  meeting  my  beloved  again, 
Filled  all  my  soul  with  gladness ;  for  we  part 
But  for  a  little  season — a  brief  day, 
From  earth  to  heaven,  and,  like  the  evening  star 
Upon  the  azure  verge  of  summer's  sky, 
The  soul  embraceth  two  eternities. 

A  sea  of  voices  waked  me  from  my  dreams 
Of  holier  spheres,  and  told  me  of  the  earth, 


132  THE     DEATH    SCENE. 


That  held  in  its  cold  bosom  all  my  loves, 

Save  one  sweet  babe,  the  image  of  its  sire 

Upon  his  lonely  widow's  heart !     O  Earth  ! 

Cold  is  the  couch  thy  sons  must  sleep  upon, 

And  dark  the  chambers  of  their  slumber  deep. 

I  looked  around  me  and  the  vestal  moon 

Was  silvering  the  waters,  o'er  which  scud, 

Swan-like,  full  many  a  silent  sail  bound  far, 

Perchance,  to  fathomless  eternity  ! 

And  dazzling  lamps,  that  seemed  in  the  pale  moon 

Like  crime  obtruding  his  unholy  light 

Before  rose-beaming  virtue,  glared  above 

The  blushing  waters  as  they  laughed  in  scorn. 

And  in  a  sea-dome,  studded  o'er  with  lights 

That  mocked  the  diamond,  many  a  voice  arose 

In  merriment  well  feigned,  and  many  a  form 

Of  outward  splendour  glided  round  to  find 

Something  to  tell  how  happy  all  must  be 

Who  woo  and  win  the  pleasures  of  the  world. 

Like  earth's  gay  hopes,  full  oft  a  column  rose 

Of  fire  far  in  the  azure  vault  of  night, 

And  then  it  burst  and  vanished  !  some  did  watch 

The  glittering  fragments  till  they  fell — then  sighed — 

And  I  sighed  too — they  told  me  of  my  joys  ! 

It  was  no  scene  for  me — the  sights  I  saw 

Were  once  shared  with  those  eyes  that  wake  no  more  ; 

The  voices  that  I  heard  were  all  unknown  ; 

The  arm  I  held  was  not  my  wedded  lord's  ! 

'Tis  bitter  to  compare  our  passing  years  ! 

The  Dead  !  where  are  they  now  ?    The  Living  !  what 

Are  they  to  those  whose  hearts  are  in  the  tomb  ? 

#  #  #  *  *  * 

Slow  I  returned  to  my  lone  room,  and  kissed 

My  sleeping  child,  and  looked  to  heaven — and  wept. 


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